


Roaring Silence

by breakthebox



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Australian Aboriginal Mythology, Eventual Smut, Good Sibling Dean Winchester, Hunter Training, I'm Bad At Tagging, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Feelings, Slow Burn, Violence, Worried Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23049139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakthebox/pseuds/breakthebox
Summary: Clara Belfore is a mess. her dad is dead, her flight was diverted, and she's stuck with a shitty hire car. But when she crosses paths with the Winchesters, her whole world turns on its head.This is the story of Sam, Dean, and the girl that made them drag her along for the ride. Will she make them stronger, or will she just end up as another body for them to burn?(This story will definitely heat up in all the best ways! Tags, relationships and warnings TBA.)
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	1. The First Hunt

**7:46pm. Saturday**

Clara had been on the road for almost fourteen hours before she finally admitted to herself that she needed to pull over.

A motel appeared on the left, seedy as all get out but with ‘Vacancies’ shining down in neon red. That was all she needed. She swung her shitty little Mazda hire car into a park and felt a pang as she thought of her own car, back in Philadelphia – Ellie, the Chevy El Camino her dad had bought from a scrapyard and rebuilt as she grew up. It had taken years, but as Clara got older she found herself helping the repairs along, faster and faster until he had handed her the keys on her twenty-first birthday. Clara smiled at the memory. She had been home from college, a semester away from finishing her degree in Ancient History and accepting the full-ride offered to her for a Doctorate. She was going to be the best museum curator the MET had ever seen, her dad had said - It made sense that she should drive a car that had a history. She had grinned and hugged him so hard he had jokingly said that she was going to crack his ribs. Tears sprang to her eyes and Clara brushed them away furiously. She had already spent the majority of her flight to Montana sobbing into the window, and she refused to let it out again.

She slipped from the car, straightening the uncomfortable black dress around her thighs as she shouldered her way into the reception area. A couple of guys brushed past her as she entered and she stumbled, catching herself just before she fell and made a complete ass of herself. Neither of the men noticed her, locked deep in conversation as they were.

“Asshats,” she muttered to herself as she approached the desk. She booked a room, the cheapest one they had, and took the keys from the woman behind the desk with a forced smile. It was dark out and all she wanted was a drink and a couple of hours sleep before she had to hit the road again. She rubbed absently at the rough fabric of her dress as she pulled her overnight bag from the backseat and trudged across the parking lot to find her door – room 103. As she entered the room (not nice by any stretch of the imagination but clean, at least) she felt the overwhelming need to shower. She kicked the door shut behind her and dropped her bags, unzipping her dress and shoving it down until it puddled on the ground. The relief was instantaneous when she toed off her too small black heels (she had had to borrow them from her roommate), and kicked the dress into the corner. Making her way to the bathroom and turning on the water, Clara sighed as steam began to fill the room. Eventually she stepped under the spray, gasping at the brutal heat but, not having the energy to turn the cold water up, forced herself to relish the burn. Father Dan’s words echoed in her mind.

_“Your father was a good man, Clara. I’m so sorry he was taken from you so soon. Please, let me know if you ever need to talk.”_

Her father had been her best friend since she was fifteen years old. And now he was dead. A freak aortic aneurysm, they had told her. She had dropped everything, mid-semester, and caught the first flight from Philadelphia to Helena. It was supposed to only be a four-hour drive from there to the town she spent her teen years in, but of course it was just her luck to have someone collapse of a heart attack halfway through the flight. The plane had been diverted and after kicking up an undignified stink Clara had been provided with a hire car. It had forced her to make the eighteen hour one-way trip to the small town she had lived her not-enough-years with her father.

You see, Clara wasn’t technically American. Sure, she had the passport and the legal citizenship, but she had spent her first fourteen years with her mother in a little town in Queensland, Australia. The middle of buttfuck nowhere, as Clara liked to say. Her mother had drunk herself to death the week before Clara’s fifteenth birthday, and it had taken four months to track down her birth father – one Mr. Gerald ‘Gerry’ Belfore. He had taken her in without a breath of hesitation, and she had arrived in Helena, Montana, to find him standing at the gate, nervous as all get out with a social services officer by his side and a teddy bear clutched in his hands. She had been here for going on eight years, had been an American for eight years, but she still felt more Australian than anything else. It took a mental reminder not to use the slang of her childhood around new people, knowing that likely the joke wouldn’t land. Clara’s thoughts drifted back to her dad, the tears that had threated to spill over in the car falling in earnest now.

He had raised Clara as best he could. She was a mess, sure, but he had done his best. And She was determined to do the same.

There was a severe banging on the motel room door that jerked Clara from her reverie. She tried to ignore it, but whoever it was, was damned determined and she shut off the water with a frustrated sigh. She threw on a shirt and a pair of tights before opening the door to a gorgeous, green eyed, fucking _pissed_ man.

“Finally.” He said, “Room 103, yeah? The little Mazda? You’re in the wrong spot. Move your car, alright?”

“Jesus, what crawled up your arse and died?” Clara shot back, grabbing up her keys and moving out towards her car.

The man grunted and disappeared down the walkway. Clara shifted her car, but then thought _fuck it_ and took off to find the nearest liquor store.

An hour later Clara was pleasantly tipsy, finishing up her third glass of wine and reaching for a fourth. The run in with the – admittedly incredibly attractive – douchebag from four doors down long forgotten.

  
****

The next day Clara desperately regretted cracking open that second bottle of wine – though, to be honest, the only reminder that she had done so was the two empty bottles at the bottom of the waste basket. She had awoken at dawn, gasping and covered in sweat.

Frankly, she felt like shit, but still she crawled from the bed and dressed in her running gear. The rising sun peeked over the horizon as she downed three glasses of water, popped too many painkillers and took to the streets. Pounding the pavement and, hopefully, pounding the hangover from her head. Two miles in she stopped, grasping her side as the stitch tore into her. Clara forced air through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the pain. Suddenly she was sprawled on the ground, air pushed from her lungs and cheek pressed into the dirt. Clara groaned and rolled onto her back. An achingly tall man stood over her, his anxious hazel eyes partially obscured by sweat slicked long brown hair.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you. Are you okay?” He reached down and pulled her to her feet, steadying her as she swayed. Clara reddened with embarrassment and shook free of his grasp.

“I’m fine,” even she was surprised by her shortness. “I-I’ve gotta go.” She took off, running too fast for it to be sustainable but fast enough for the man to disappear from her view within seconds. She arrived at her motel room as the sun gained heat, heaving in great gulps of air as she let herself into the room and beelined for the shower.

****

It was only when she was seated in front of a steaming pile of pancakes in the local diner that she made the connection between the two men she had run into. Well, she didn’t exactly make the connection herself – they ended up seated two booths over, and the connection had made itself obvious to her. The line of their jaws, the curve of their lips – brothers. Definitely.

She buried herself in her breakfast, studiously ignoring their conversation as she ate and tried to shake the remainder of her hangover.

****

**7:46pm. Saturday.**

Dean was sure the old lady behind the motel desk was ripping him off. Under that sweet façade was a shark, he would bet Baby on it. He wanted to argue the price she had set, but Sam was dead on his feet and Dean not much better after four back to back hunts across three states, and neither of them wanted to drive any further. Dean took the key offered to him and grunted his reluctant thanks. Sam was rambling on about something to do with a potential witch job about fourteen hours south-east – Dean was struggling to keep up when a girl with red rimmed eyes pushed the door open roughly and shoved past him. Dean bit back words of anger and shook it off, heading towards Baby and then, finally, his bed. Dean tossed Sam the motel key and he made his way to the room while Dean slid behind Baby’s wheel. The engine fired to life and he guided her towards their assigned park.

“Of fucking course.” He groaned at the sight of a little grey Mazda blocking his spot. There were no other parks free anywhere near their room. His mood worsened, Dean parked the car across the lot and heaved his and Sam’s bags from the trunk. As he crossed the dark carpark he noticed the black-clad woman pulling a bag from that stupid Mazda and striding down the walkway to her own room. Dean felt annoyance rise in his chest, fuelled in part by his exhaustion and the utter failure of their last hunt. Yeah, they’d put the monster down, but they hadn’t been able to save anyone. Not this time.

The older Winchester shouldered his way into the motel room. Sam was already in the shower and Dean fell across the closest bed, moaning obscenely. A few minutes later his brother emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his hips. Sam rummaged around in his bag for fresh clothes and settled for the least funky smelling ones – they _really_ needed to hit up a laundromat soon. Sam quickly changed and looked around.

“Dude,” He said, prompting Dean to roll over onto his back and crack open an eye to look at him. “You forgot the cooler.”

Dean groaned and threw his head back. A beer would be damn good right now, but the thought of walking past that woman’s toy car in _their_ spot to get it was not appealing. Sighing, Dean rose and grabbed the keys to the Impala, stomping from the room without a word.

He took about three steps towards the carpark and then stopped. _I’m getting that damn carpark._ He found himself outside the door of the Mazda-woman’s room and banged on the door just a bit too hard. Eventually it swung open to reveal an extremely pissed off brunette.

“Finally, room 103, yeah? The little Mazda? You’re in the wrong spot. Move your car, alright?” He tried to soften his words with a twitch of his lips but didn’t think it worked.

“Jesus, what crawled up your arse and died?” the woman’s accent surprised him – Australian? – and he grunted in response. If he had been a little less exhausted and a little more horny he definitely would have gone for this girl. Just a touch shorter than himself, brown hair almost black with moisture and glistening as it dried. Her piercing grey eyes complemented the pale cream of her skin, dotted with freckles as it was. And that body… well. Dean had realised as he got older that curves were far, far more satisfying than the stick figures he used to chase around. And damn, this woman had curves in _all_ the right places. She pulled the door shut behind her and Dean shook himself, turning and heading back down the walkway toward the Impala.

Twenty minutes later Sam and Dean were both clean and onto their second beer. Dean, smugly happy that he could see Baby outside the window now, laid back against the pillow, content.

****

Sam had left his brother at five am, snoring and tangled in his bed, to go for his usual run. It helped to focus on something as simple as the beat of his feet on the pavement, the drumming of his heart and the music in his ears as he ran through the pre-dawn. He hadn’t been for a run in too long and resolved to take more advantage of opportunities as they came up. Sweating and feeling the sweet burn in his calves, Sam started back towards the motel. As he rounded a corner, he barely had time to react before he barrelled into a person standing in the middle of the path. The girl was sprawled in the dirt, obviously winded by the impact. Sam jerked the earbuds from his ears and tried to help her up, stepping back as she shook him away. She was red and sweaty and breathless, her mousy hair in a messy ponytail, strands escaping to stick against her neck and cheeks. Sam met those stormy grey eyes and swallowed. The girl swayed, her hand on her side, and Sam reached out instinctively to steady her.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you. Are you okay?” The words tumbled out over each other and Sam cringed internally.

The girl shook free again and glared at him. “I’m fine,” she bit out. “I-I’ve gotta go.” With that she took off running in the opposite direction to him. Sam stood there, bemused, as she disappeared around the bend.

_Right._ He thought, furrowing his brow as he slipped his earbuds back in and settled back into his steady pace, legs pumping as they carried him back to the motel.

Dean was just waking up as Sam let himself into their room, panting still. He beelined for the bathroom and washed the sweat away before dressing in the clothes he had worn the night before. By the time he emerged Dean was up and dressed.

“Mornin’,” his older brother said gruffly, still struggling to wake up.

“Mornin’.” Sam responded. “I passed a diner on my run – coffee?”

“Coffee.” Dean affirmed, heading for the door. “I don’t get why you do that to yourself, the running – what the hell is the point if something isn’t chasing you?”

****

Clara finished up her pancakes, resisting the urge to swipe her finger through the remnants of syrup in the plate and drained her coffee. She raised her hand to signal the waiter for a refill. Of course, it was at that moment that the taller brother, the one who had knocked her over that morning, looked over his brother’s shoulder and directly into her eyes. She froze, and he frowned faintly. Tossing a glance over his shoulder and then back at her, he hesitantly gave her a confused wave. Clara realised her hand was still up and let it fall, blushing furiously as the older one turned to look at who his brother was waving at. It was then that the waiter arrived and saved her from further embarrassment, filling her mug with a smile. By the time he disappeared the two men were both bent over their plates and Clara felt a wave of relief. Tapping her thumb against the hot mug mindlessly, she found herself tuning in to the conversation two booths over.

“That’s what I said, Dean.” a voice hissed, and she knew it instantly – the long-haired runner. “They classed it as an aneurysm, but I don’t think that’s what it was.”

“Oh yeah?” The older one said, his gruff voice muffled by what was clearly a mouth full of food. “What gives you that idea, Sam?” the runner had a name now – Sam. Clara found herself smiling just a touch. It suited him – he looked like a Sam.

“Because Gerald Belfore is the seventh perfectly healthy man in that town to have an aortic aneurysm in the last twelve months.”

Clara yelped at the mention of her father’s name, the mug that had been halfway to her mouth slipping from nerveless fingers, bouncing once on the table before shattering on the floor by her feet, spraying her with hot coffee as it fell.

“Fuck!” Clara shouted, pulling her soaked t-shirt away from her body to stop the scalding heat. The entire diner fell silent, their eyes on her. The waiter from before rushed over with a cloth. She glanced up and caught Dean staring at her with a “fucking crazy” look on his face. Sam… Sam just looked kind of concerned.

By the time she had cleaned herself up as much as she could and apologised profusely to the waitstaff, the brothers were making their way out of the diner and towards the car park. Clara hurriedly threw down some money on the table and rushed after them. She caught them just as they reached their – damn gorgeous – car, sleek and black and by the looks of it a Chevy, same year or decade at least as her own.

“Hey!” she cried out. “Hold up!”

The brothers stopped and Clara tried to ignore the fact that both of them let their right hands slip under their jackets. _They’re packing._ _Good to know._ She slowed to a stop in front of them, pulling the stained mess of her white t-shirt off of her stomach again. The brothers appraised her warily.

“What did you mean, you didn’t think Gerald Belfore had an aneurysm?” She asked, trying to stop the shaking of her hands growing to affect her voice.

Dean cocked his head and let out a fake bark of laughter. “Aw, Sammy here’s practicing some lines for a pl-”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Cut the shit, okay?” Dean pressed his lips together in surprise and shared a glance with his brother. “he’s my dad. I buried him three days ago. There weren’t any news articles about it, so tell me how the hell you know his name.” she smiled, a sweet little curve of her lips that hid razors. “And tell me why you think an aneurysm didn’t kill him.”

****

Five minutes later the three of them were back inside the diner, Clara seated opposite the two brothers. She had introduced herself as the entered. Now, they eyed her suspiciously as she sipped at the water glass set in front of her. (Sam had poured a splash of holy water in it the second he saw a window).

Uncomfortable under their gaze, she swallowed the water and looked up at them, eyes flicking between their hard ones.

“What?”

The brothers shared a glance and Sam inclined his head. Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. This was new territory for the Winchesters. Sam and Dean’s eyes met and both were thinking the same thing – what are the odds? Fourteen hours from nowhere, a tiny town in a subpar diner, and they cross paths with a vic’s daughter? Hell, they weren’t even sure if there _was_ a vic.

“Your dad – did he have any enemies? Anyone why would want to harm him or want him dead?”

“What? No. No, my dad… he got on with everyone in town. Even after I showed up, he was still the favourite for most of ‘em, you know?”

“What do you mean, showed up?” Sam asked.

Clara winced. “I moved from Australia when I was fourteen, after my mum died – dad didn’t even know I existed, but I had nowhere else to go and once he found out I was his daughter he moved heaven and earth to get me over to the US. I wasn’t the… easiest kid to deal with.” She barked out a laugh. “Actually, I was a complete fuck up. But he took care of me. Gave me a future.”

Sam frowned. This didn’t sound like the type of guy to get caught up in the occult, or black magic. A glance at his brother suggested the same thing was playing through his mind.

“Now it’s your turn.” Clara said to them. “what do you think happened?”

“Uh…” Dean looked at Sam, exhaling slowly. “Well, the thing is… We, uh, we’re private investigators. Looking into strings of similar deaths wherever they pop up around the country, and Gerald was the seventh aortic aneurysm in town, so we figured we’d check it out, see if there was anything…” he shrugged and Sam took up the spiel.

“You know, water contamination, electrical shortages, that kind of thing.”

Clara looked at them, wide eyed and smelling bullshit. “So… you think contaminated water gave my dad an aneurysm? Him and six others, but no one else had any other issues?”

Dean smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We need to cover every possibility.”

There was silence at the table so thick you’d struggle to cut it was a knife. Clara was drumming her fingers on the table, eyeing the two men in front of her doubtfully.

“Right.” She said slowly. “I’m not convinced.” She stood and the brothers scrambled out the booth as well. “So, I’m coming with you.”

“like hell you are!” Dean scoffed.

“You really don’t have much of a choice. I’m coming. Or would you like me to start screaming about what you slipped in my drink earlier? When you thought I wasn’t paying attention?” Clara fanned herself dramatically. “I’m starting to feel a bit faint.”

Dean swatted her hand down and shouldered past her, heading for the door. “Fine,” he grunted. “But there is no way we’re taking your shitty little Mazda.”

Clara strode after him. “It’s a hire car,” she said, mourning the absence of Ellie even more.

****

Eight hours later they were just over halfway to their destination when they pulled into a gas station to fill up. Clara had grabbed her bag from the back of the Mazda before they left to head back to her hometown and was now comfortably clothed in a fresh, non-coffee stained travelling outfit – black leggings, runners, and a faded blue sweater of her dad’s. it was far too big, and had a couple of holes near the hem, but it smelled like him and felt like home. She shifted uncomfortably in the back seat of what she had learned was a ’67 Impala, her bladder protesting. But there was no chance in hell she was giving these guys the chance to ditch her. No way. Dean killed the engine and swung out of the car to fill her up, leaving the keys in the ignition. Sam looked back at her and smiled gently.

“You okay there?” He asked. He had definitely made himself out as the nicer of the two – more approachable, anyway. The two of them had actually had a couple of pretty interesting conversations on the drive so far.

“Peachy.” She muttered, shifting again. Her predicament became clear to Sam.

“Clara, we’re not gonna ditch you on the side of the road if you want to go to the bathroom.”

Clara arched an eyebrow. “You might not, but I don’t exactly get the same vibe from big bro over there.”

Sam laughed and reached over, pulling the keys from the ignition and tossing them to her. Clara snatched them from the air instinctively.

“Nice catch,” Sam said. There was a note of something in his voice – appreciation? “There, now we _can’t_ leave you behind.” Clara` gave him a small smile and exited the vehicle, dangling the keys teasingly from her hand as she passed Dean, the look on his face enough to make her laugh lightly. Sam watched her disappear around the corner before Dean appeared in him window.

“Did she just take the keys?”

“I gave them to her, Dean – she thinks we’re gonna take off on her.”

“God damn, you and your bleeding heart. Of course we were gonna take off on her.” He frowned at the empty keyhole. “This feels like kidnapping. Are we being kidnapped?”

Sam just rolled his eyes and pulled a lore book from his backpack, burying his nose in the pages while Dean went over and paid for the gas.

By the time he was done Clara was back at the car, stretching before she folded herself into the backseat. Dean watched her eyes rove over the car appreciatively and softened, just a touch. She looked up as he approached and tossed the keys over Baby at him before sliding into the car. Dean followed suit and soon they were off, motoring down the highway. Clara stared out the window for a while and then leaned forward, propping her arms up on the back of the bench seatback in front of her and then resting her chin on her arms. Her eyes fell on the book Sam held, and she gasped.

“No way!” She said, moving closer to him as she tried to get a good look. “That isn’t… is that by the Men of Letters? Seriously?”

Both Sam and Dean snapped their heads towards her and Clara fell forward as Dean slammed on the breaks, pulling them to a hard stop in the middle of the road.

“How do you know about them? Are you a hunter?”

“What?” she said. She didn’t fail to notice that a wickedly sharp bone handled blade had appeared in Dean’s hand.

“Start talking. Who’re you with?” Dean’s voice was low and lethal. Clara felt a cold bolt of fear – what the hell had she gotten herself into?

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, okay?” she felt a tremor run through her and she swallowed. “I’m about to finish up my Doctorate – Curatorship, specialising in Mythology and Ancient History. The Men of Letter’s are, like, a folk tale that my mentor is obsessed with – but they’re just a myth. I thought they were just a myth.” She thought for a second. “Are you both…”

Sam shared a glance with Dean and Clara breathed a sigh of relief as Dean tucked the knife back into his coat.

The younger Winchester nodded. “We’re Legacies. Our grandfather was a Man of Letters.”

“This is insane. The Men of Letters – they researched and catalogued _supernatural creatures._ ” She looked between the two of them, tension leeching back into her as when she saw no hint of humour in their faces. “Monsters aren’t real!”

Even as she said it, Sam was shaking his head. “We should probably talk.”

****

Clara took the beer can offered to her and threw it back, barely pausing until she had drained it. Her head was reeling with the sheer volume of information the brothers had imparted, and the massive impact it had on her carefully crafted view of the world. She crushed the can and tossed in in the nearby trash can, reaching for another without a word. Sam and Dean were perched on the bonnet of the Impala, silently watching her melt down.

They had found an out of the way campground a few miles from where Dean had stopped in the middle of the road and pulled in, relieved to find that there was no one else in the area. Then, the brothers had taken turns explaining to Clara the reality of the world she lived in. How they had saved the world more than once. How those weird natural phenomena that had been reported on as she grew up had, in fact, been signs of the supernatural world. Clara had let them speak for over an hour, only stopping them to ask for clarification or further details.

Clara took two long swallows from her second beer and shook a tremor from her hand.

“Okay,” She said, looking up at the brothers. “So you think some…. _Thing_ killed my dad?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You’re taking this well.” He observed. Clara smiled tightly.

“I’m really not.”

Sam laughed at that and she took another drink.

“I just… need to process. But _we_ need to focus on this – what did you call it?” She looked to the sky, searching for the word. “This hunt.”

“You still want to stick with us?” Clara met Sam’s surprised gaze.

“Well, duh.” She sighed. “Even if I decide you’re both psycho, I still agree that something’s up with what happened to my dad.” At the questioning look from Sam, she shrugged. “They wouldn’t let me see his body. If it had just been an aneurysm it wouldn’t have mattered, right?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, actually. So, What? We go dig him up and have a look for ourselves?” Clara blanched at that and Sam hit his brother in the arm.

“Clara, I know this is a lot. Are you okay?”

“Fan-freaking-tastic, Sam.” She said drily, draining her beer and tossing the can in the trash. “And besides, you can’t dig him up. He was cremated. His friend, David, said that was what he wanted. But…” She trailed off.

“But?” Dean prompted.

She cleared her throat. “he had never mentioned it to me. Like, ever. He always said he wanted to be buried under the old Maple tree at the end of the town cemetery, but he never mentioned being cremated and then buried.”

Sam eased down off the car. “Well, David seems as good a person as any to talk to first. Let’s get going.”

****

Clara paced the length of the motel room again for millionth time. They had rolled into town late at night, found a motel with two beds and a pull-out sofa and passed out. The next morning the Winchesters had insisted Clara stay at the motel while they went to speak to David – there would be too many questions, they decided, if she showed up again randomly after leaving after the funeral. Clara had acquiesced, grudgingly admitting that they had a point. The boys had dressed in suits and left three hours ago though, and Clara was getting restless. Not to mention, _hungry._ She was about to give up and go in search of food when she heard a key turn in the front door lock. She stilled in the centre of the room and felt a wave of relief wash over her as Dean poked his head into the room, followed by the rest of him and then Sam.

Sam had a stack of files in his arms and Clara rushed over to take some from him before they fell to the floor.

“Thanks,” he huffed out, flicking hair out of his eyes. Clara smiled in acknowledgement and turned to Dean. Her eyes fell on the cardboard box in his hands, and the tantalising smell of Indian food wafting over to her. She let out a moan that made Dean laugh.

“Oh, thank god,” she said. “I’m starving.”

The three of them ate over the case files Sam had obtained from the police station. After she had finished eating, Clara rummaged through her bag and pulled out a pair of round gold glasses, a notebook and a pen. She put the glasses on and threw her hair up into a messy knot. She took her share of the files and sat cross legged on the floor, back against the end of Sam’s bed as she spread the papers around her, twirling the pen in her hand as she read and taking notes of anything she thought relevant. Sam found himself staring at her as she pushed the glasses back up her nose, frowning slightly at something she read.

Dean slammed his hand down on the table and Sam quirked a smile as Clara jumped, her hand flying to her chest.

“Jesus, give me a heart attack why don’t you?” She said. Dean ignored her and stood, fanning out a pile of pages on the table. Clara joined the boys.

“The first six had their cars serviced the week before they died – that’s the only connection I’ve been able to dig up,” he shrugged. “Doesn’t take your dad into account, though.”

Clara frowned. “Actually…” she trailed off. Dean and Sam shared a look and Sam cleared his throat, prompting her to go on.

“Dad plays poker at the garage once a week – it’s the only one in town. His friend, David? He owns the place, runs a game out of the shop for his mates.” She reached for her phone and thumbed through some text messages until she found the one she was looking for – from her dad, a ridiculous selfie of him and David, poker table in the background and wide grins on their faces. She showed it the brothers. “He played three days before he died.”

“There’s our connection, then.” Dean said. He turned his attention to Sam. “So, what – they all pissed David off and he went black magic on their asses?”

“Wait-”

“It definitely sounds like a witch, but there weren’t any hex bags that I could find – maybe a cursed object? Or blood work?” Sam frowned thoughtfully.

“Guys, stop!” Clara almost shouted and the brothers turned back to eyebrows raised. “You can’t seriously think David did this? He’s not a witch! He’s my dad’s best friend – he taught me to fish, to do an oil change. He couldn’t have done this. It has to have been someone, _something_ else.”

Sam looked at her sympathetically. “I’m sorry Clara, but David’s the one tying it all together. We’ve gotta at least check him out.”

Dean nodded, pulling his gun from his waistband and checking the chamber. “And if it is him, we fill him full of these – witch-killing bullets.”

Clara sank heaving into a chair, face pale. “This is insane,” she whispered. An uncomfortable silence filled the motel room for a beat, and then Clara looked up and met Sam’s eyes. “You said there hadn’t been hex bags, right? Maybe he isn’t a witch, maybe it’s something else. You’re not certain. You can’t do this if you’re not certain.”

Her hands were clenched around each other on the table, and Sam watched her dig her thumbnail into the soft flesh on the side of one of her nails, drawing blood as she tore at the skin. He winced and covered her hands with his larger one.

“All the signs point to it being a witch, and that witch being David. We’ve been doing this a long time, Clara – we have to take care of this, or more people are going to die.”

Clara looked like she was going to throw up. Dean stood and motioned for his brother to follow him.

“Stay here, Clara. We’ll be back once it’s over.”

Sam started to draw his hand away but Clara stopped him, squeezing it hard. “Be sure, okay? Be really sure.” He nodded and she released him. The men left and Clara stared sightlessly at the papers spread over the table for a long time. The garage was only a few minutes drive from the motel, and she knew that the Winchesters would definitely find David there. She pushed back from the table and paced the room. Something didn’t feel right. David had loved her dad like a brother. He had no interest in the occult, no interest in anything remotely related to the supernatural, even when Clara had gone through her Wiccan phase and tried to convince him that magic was real. Clara bit her lip. There was something floating at the edge of her mind, something important. She couldn’t quite reach it and it infuriated her. She strode back over the table, sorting through the pages until her eyes fell on the words that sparked adrenaline in her veins and dread in her gut.

****

Dean strolled through the open garage door, adopting an affable and slightly bemused persona. It had hurt like a punch to the gut to yank a few of Baby’s wires free from their sockets, but Sam needed a distraction if he was going to be able to search the garage before David’s weekly poker game kicked off.

_What an asshole._ Dean said as he entered the garage. _Still running a game a few days after his supposed best friend died._

A big man, tall and broad and covered in grease stood as Dean approached. The name stitched into his jumpsuit read ‘Dave’ in cursive script. 

“Hey there.” Dave had a southern twang. “What seems to the problem?” At Dean’s arched eyebrow the mechanic chuckled. “Generally when people _walk_ in here there’s an issue with their vehicle.”

“Ah,” Dean smiled through his teeth. “Yeah, she stopped on me a little way back. I was hoping to get a hand – I’m not great with cars.”

As Dean talked with David, Sam crept through the office door, rifling through the mechanic’s desk for any sign of witchcraft. He slid the draws shut and took in the rest of the room. The walls were covered in photos, and Sam felt a pang as he recognised Clara’s eyes in the face of a teenage girl, hair wild and clothes smeared with grease as she grinned at the camera. She was flanked by David and Gerry, both looking as happy as she did.

He jerked as his phone began to ring, too loudly in the small room, and swore under his breath. He could have sworn he had put it on silent. He saw Clara’s name flash up on the screen and declined the call as he heard David’s voice grow closer. He dove towards the office door just as the handle turned. He pressed himself to the wall as the door swung open, concealing him from view.

“Huh,” He heard David say, a note of suspicious surprise in his voice. “I could have sworn I heard a phone in here.”

David began to step into the room and Sam saw the tip of his worn boots appear. His heart began to thump painfully in his chest – David only had to tilt his head to the left and he would see Sam trapped there in the corner.

“Weird.” Sam heard his brother say casually from outside. “Look, man, I’m kind of in a rush, so…” Sam let out a quiet breath as the door closed again, David apologising and starting to talk shop with Dean as he was led away.

While the older Winchester kept the mechanic occupied (“Wait, so can you show me how to check the oil again?”) Sam scoured the garage for any sign that David had been dabbling in dark magic. When he heard the Impala roar down the road the led to the garage, Dean revving the engine obnoxiously, he knew it was time to go – empty handed or not.

Sam slipped from the garage and jogged down the block to where Dean was waiting for him.

“So?” Dean asked as Sam opened the door. His younger brother shook his head and Dean hit the steering wheel in frustration. “Well, maybe he doesn’t do his hoodoo at the garage – maybe at home?”

Sam opened his mouth to answer when his phone started to vibrate for the third time after the close call with David. Exasperated, he put the phone on speaker and answered with a short “what?” that even Dean thought was rude.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve called you four times!” Clara’s voice was loud and abrasive through the speaker. “Please tell me you haven’t hurt Davey?” Dean smirked at the nickname and answered before Sam could.

“We didn’t find anything at the garage,” he admitted. “But we still need to check out his house.”

“don’t bother,” Clara responded. “It’s not him.”

Sam sighed. “Clara-”

“I’m serious!” the Australian cut him off. “It isn’t David. And It isn’t a witch. Get your arses back to the room. Now.” The phone-call clicked off and Dean looked at Sam, stunned.

“Who the hell is this girl?”

****

By the time the Winchesters arrived back at the motel, Clara had nearly worn a furrow in the carpet with her pacing.

“I told you.” She said accusingly. “I _knew_ something wasn’t right with the witch theory.”

“What’s going on, Clara?” Dean said through gritted teeth.

She stilled and held up a leather-bound book. “It’s a basilisk.”

“Like Harry Potter?” Sam frowned, picturing a massive serpent slithering through the town unnoticed. No way.

“Seriously? Harry Potter, Sammy?” Dean asked as Sam moved forward, taking the book from Clara’s hands and flipping it open to a page Clara had marked with a ribbon.

“A basilisk – It’s not as big as you think. It’s described more than once as being “only twelve fingers long”, a snake-like creature with a killing look and venomous breath. Each of the victims had bled from the eyes – it’s a symptom of a basilisk glare, _not_ witchcraft.” She smiled grimly. “I’ve been studying what’s left of Da Vinci’s Bestiary for my thesis – everything, from the aneurysm to the victims to the bleeding eyes – it all fits.”

Sam turned to his brother, dumbfounded. “How the fuck did we miss this?”

Dean still didn’t believe it. He and Sam had been in this life for decades – no way had they got this case wrong. It was cut and dry.

Clara continued. “All of the victims, they had been to David’s garage, sure. But they had also reported seeing snakes in the days leading up to their deaths – Martin Carver was looking for suggestions for a pest controller. Felicity Long posted on Facebook about a snake sunbaking on her car roof. My dad-” She pulled out her phone and threw it to Dean – he caught it and took in the photo on the screen – Gerry, just visible in the corner of the frame, with a snake twisted around a tree and staring at him with wary eyes as the man took the selfie. “Sent me this when he found a snake in the lot next to the garage. He died the next day.”

Sam looked at Dean and shrugged. “It fits. All of it. More-so than a curse.”

“So, what, the garage connection was just a coincidence?” Dean still wasn’t entirely convinced, even though he doubted David was the culprit. The short time he had spent with the man had caused Dean to, grudgingly, admit that David was kind, annoyingly likeable and likely harmless.

Clara gasped, realisation dawning in her eyes as the puzzle pieces slid into place. “It’s nesting! That’s it’s nest!” a slow smile crept across her face as she thought it out. “It’s not David that all of the victims have in common, but the _garage._ ” She looked earnestly at Dean. “You guys were looking for signs of witchcraft, not this. You easily could have missed it!”

There was a long silence as the Winchesters processed the information, their eyes meeting as they carried out one of the silent conversations. Finally, Dean nodded.

“Okay, so. Basilisk.” He said and couldn’t help but quirk a smile as Clara sagged in relief. “How do we kill it?”

Clara held up a finger, taking the bestiary from Sam and flipping a few pages. “Da Vinci says its own stare can kill it. So… mirrors?” she guessed, and Sam nodded.

“Seems like the best bet, Dean.”

Dean smiled tightly. “And god knows we’re betting men. Now all we have to do is find it.”

****

This time, Clara convinced the brothers to bring her with them – she would be able to distract David while they hunted down the basilisk. The poker game would be well underway by now, and it would be her job to keep the four players contained to the office. The brothers had agreed it was unlikely the Basilisk had made its nest in that room, as often used as it was. No, they were looking for somewhere warm, dark and quiet. Clara had scrounged up a couple of handheld mirrors for them, warning the boys to not look the basilisk in the eye under any circumstances. And, though the claims of venomous breath were less substantial, she made them promise to keep a safe distance just in case.

Heart pounding in her chest, Clara walked up the drive to the garage. Gravel crunched under her feet and she could hear soft rock music and loud laughter filtering from the open office door. Her heart hurt at the thought of seeing another man sitting in her father’s chair, always to the right of David when they played poker. Steeling herself, she pushed through the open door, brandishing a bottle of whiskey she had bought from the store a block from her motel before Sam and Dean had dropped her off in front of the garage. It had been agreed that they would park further down the road, wait five minutes and then begin hunting.

The voices in the office died as, one by one, the men noticed who was standing in the doorway. David turned and saw her last, his smile fading and replaced with a look of confusion.

“Clara?” He asked, ushering her inside. “I thought you left town days ago.”

She smiled, a practiced upturn of her lips, and repeated the story she had decided on. “my car broke down two towns over – the mechanic who’s taking care of it was kind enough to give me a lift back here.” She paused. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

“Why didn’t you call me?” David’s weathered face creased into a frown. Clara’s throat went dry and she cursed herself.

“I, uh…” She was scrambling. “My phone died. I figured you would be okay with me just showing up, but I can go…” she stepped back towards the door, feeling a little bad about the guilt-trip. It paid off, though, and David shook his head, wrapping her in a great bear hug as the other men chorused various welcomes and “don’t go’s” behind him. She lifted the bottle.

“I brought my buy-in!”

****

Sam looked at his watch for the millionth time. “Okay, that’s time.” He couldn’t stop the relief from colouring his words as he swung his long legs from the car. “Let’s get going.”

Dean followed suit and soon the two were stealing across the empty lot next to the garage, eyes roaming and gripping mirrors in one hand, guns in the other. They could hear laughter emanating from the office as Clara told a shockingly bawdy story from her days as a teen in Queensland.

The brothers made quick work of the main workspace – it was too open, too exposed to provide enough shelter for a basilisk nest. Spying a door in the back corner, Dean motioned to his brother with his head and they both padded towards it. It was bolted, but Sam knelt and made short work of the lock as Dean cast a watchful eye over the garage. Swinging the door open, the brothers were met with the sight of a flight of stairs, dropping away into inky darkness. Sharing an apprehensive look, Sam and Dean slowly descended the steps. One creaked loudly as Sam put his weight on it and he tensed, listening for any sounds above or below. All he heard though was a loud peal of Clara’s laughter and he continued his descent.

As Sam’s foot found the hard concrete of the basement floor, something brushed against his forehead and he jerked backwards with a stifled shout, knocking Dean ack onto the stairs. Holding up the mirror, he fumbled to stow his gun and pulled out a torch, clicking it on to illuminate a chain tangling from a lightbulb fixed to the ceiling. Dean looked at him.

“Wow.” The older Winchester said, deadpan. “Scary.”

Sam rolled his eyes and tugged on the chain. The naked bulb flickered on to reveal the small basement. It was small, and uncomfortably warm despite being below ground.

Blue plastic barrels lined one wall, but it was the far corner that caught Dean’s interest. He tapped Sam lightly on the shoulder and pointed – a crumbled section of the wall, with a coil of dark, glistening _something_ just visible. As the men moved forward the coil started to unravel and drop to the floor. Dean’s heart kicked into high gear. They quickly flanked the basilisk as it uncurled, and the second its head became visible both of them dropped to their knees, squeezed their eyes shut and held out their mirrors at what they hoped was eye level for the monster in front of them. It would have been comical if anyone had been watching, and Dean had to fight all of his instincts screaming at him to open his eyes and let off a round. But the research had been clear – meeting the eyes of a basilisk meant death, and there was no way he was going to risk leaving Sammy alone again.

Slowly, as they had planned, the brothers started rotating their mirrors from left to right, hopefully finding a spot that would catch the basilisk’s eye. The sound of the monster slithering across the rough concrete made his heart sink and he cracked an eye open, fully expecting to see it face to face with him. Instead… it had totally ignored the two hunters. The basilisk was already halfway up the handrail of the stairs, making its way towards Clara and the poker players. Dean hissed Sam’s name and his brother’s eyes opened to tiny slits, widening as he caught sight of the basilisk dropping from the handrail to the floor of the garage and slithering away, out of sight.

****

Clara coughed and laughed again at the story being told but the man sitting opposite her. He was a big man, larger than life, and the tale of his escapades when he was her age had her in stitches. David poured her another whiskey as the man to her left broke the deck and started shuffling the cards. She felt her phone buzz in her back pocket and slid it free, rising from the table and turning away as she lifted it to her ear.

“It’s headed your way, Clara,” Sam hissed into the phone. She peered subtly through the door, seeing Dean waving at her frantically from the end of the garage. But the basilisk was nowhere in sight. Tossing a look over her shoulder at the poker players, deep in the game, she slipped out of the office and closed the door behind her.

With a deep breath she pulled the mirrored compact she usually carried in her purse from her pocket, holding it tightly in one hand as she scanned the room for any movement. Dean let out a warning shout and lifted his gun as something whizzed through the air, hitting her square in the throat. She stumbled back, gasping, the phone and compact slipping from her hands and skidding away. Distantly she realised the basilisk had coiled itself around her neck and she snapped her eyes shut just as its heads curled up in front of her, it’s cold, dead gaze locked on the scrunched skin of her eyelids.

She felt the snake squeeze itself around her neck, and she started to panic as her breathing became shallower. _Open your eyes_ , it seemed to be telling her. _Let me look at you._

Her air had been cut off completely and she scrabbled for her compact, resisting the urge to open her eyes. And then, just like that, the pressure around her neck was gone and she was taking deep, shuddering breaths as hands grabbed at her shoulders and dragged her backwards into the office. She risked opening her eyes, seeing David’s concerned face doubling over her.

“Clara? Are you okay? Clara!” He shook her and she nodded, touching her throat gingerly. The other poker players were gathered around her, sharing looks of confusion. The door swung open with a bang, and she saw Sam scan the room before his eyes fell on her, the relief that flooded them surprising her. He pushed past the men and knelt at her side, fingers travelling gently over the skin of her neck as he checked for puncture wounds.

“Did you get it?” She rasped, then coughed. “Is it dead?” Her voice sounded better the second time, if still a bit husky.

Sam nodded looking over his shoulder to where Dean was holding the basilisk and looking at it in disgust. “Yeah, we got it. You did real good, Clara.”

“What the hell is going on?” David’s voice was tight and low. He held Clara protectively, casting his distrusting gaze over the long-haired man in front of him. Sam turned his attention to the mechanic and an excuse rolled off his tongue smoothly – something about an escaped zoo animal, pest control and Clara being in the wrong place at the right time. David accepted the excuse slowly, though Clara doubted he really believed it.

She didn’t go back to the motel with the Winchesters that night. Instead, David insisted upon her staying with him, particularly since she refused to be taken to the hospital. The next morning her neck was a patchwork of mottled purple and her throat felt as bad as it looked. Wincing as she swallowed the dregs of her second coffee for the day, Clara thought back to the look on Sam’s face when he had seen her lying on the ground in the office. It made her chest tighten and she couldn’t fight the smile rising to her lips. She had agreed to meet the brothers two towns over, and even though David had been reluctant to let her go he had eventually relented and driven her to the specified diner. He had wrapped her in a hug, plopped a fatherly kiss on the top of her head and made her promise to visit often. Then he had driven away, and Clara had taken her seat in a window booth, calling for coffee and trying to ignore the looks her bruised neck was drawing.

Clara was starting to worry Sam and Dean had ditched her when the bell over the door jangled and the two hunters entered the diner, scanning the room. Dean hit his brother’s arm lightly as he spied Clara and they strode over to her, sliding into the bench opposite and accepting coffee gratefully as a waitress appeared with a pot.

“So.” Clara said once they were alone.

“So.” Sam repeated, pouring an ungodly amount of sugar into his mug before taking a sip and smiling at her.

“That was an… adventure.” Clara’s voice, though still husky, didn’t hurt too much as it came from her mouth.

Dean snorted. “Yeah, that’s one way of looking at it.”

“What now?” She asked.

“We’ll take you back to your car, and you can fly back to Philly.”

The thought of her apartment, her bed and _Ellie_ filled her with a warm feeling.

“Unless,” Dean paused. “We’re kind of down a man in the research department, and you did save our asses this time. If you’re interested, we could use a person with your knowledge.”

Sam hurried to speak. “But only if that’s what you want, of course. We wouldn’t push this life onto anyone.”

Clara thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Thanks, but… I always promised my dad he would see me curate at the MET one day. I’m not ready to give that up.”

Sam smiled, understanding. A look at Dean told her he did too. “So, you’re not going to pick up hunting?”

It was Clara’s turn to snort, an undignified exhale that had Sam chuckling. “God no. I want my car, my bed, and my books. In that order. What you guys do…” she shook her head. “I’m glad you do it, don’t get me wrong, but I couldn’t do it myself. No way.”

The brothers seemed to accept that, and she even saw a hint of satisfaction in Sam’s eye. They ordered breakfast and ate before hitting the road, Bon Jovi blasting through the car as its occupants kept a comfortable silence.

By the time they reached the motel where Clara had left her car it was late afternoon. The brothers each hugged her goodbye before Dean said,

“Hey, Clara? We, uh, our world, it’s kind of like fight club-”

She smiled at him innocently as she swung into her car. “what fight club?”

Dean laughed. “Exactly.”

“See ya, boys.” Clara started her car, and then paused. “stay safe, yeah? And… don’t call me.” She flashed a grin and then pulled out of the parking space, disappearing down the road towards Helena. Sam and Dean stood in the carpark for a moment before heading over to the Impala. Sam opened his mouth to say something, paused, and then closed his mouth again.

“What?” Dean prodded as his baby roared to life.

“It’s just… didn’t she kind of remind you of-”

“Charlie?” Dean finished, nodding. “Yeah, just a bit.”

Sam smiled, satisfied, and settled in as Dean pealed out of the parking lot, the Impala’s wheels spraying gravel as they took off.


	2. What is meant to be

**Three Years Later**

Clara straightened her blouse as she bounded up the stairs, cursing herself for her apparent inability to keep track of time. She had been an associate professor with Georgia University’s Classics Department for going on eighteen months now, and she still felt like a school girl going to meet the principal whenever she ran late for a meeting. It didn’t help that she was, by far, the youngest employee in the department – a fact that the other professors and associates would never let her forget.

_One more year._ She thought to herself as she reached her floor. _One more year, then I’ll have the academic track record for an assistant curatorship._ She just had to keep putting one foot ahead of the other and ignore the condescending looks and sexist remarks from her so called ‘colleagues’. As she approached her office, Debbie appeared around the corner and motioned her over. Debbie made life at the University bearable – she was 56, divorced with two grown kids and four dogs, but she had the mindset of a woman Clara’s age. Clara shook her head and motioned to her slightly open office door. Hoping she conveyed the fact that she was late for an appointment with, _get this_ , the FBI, she hurried onwards. Debbie seemed to understand and gave her a thumbs up and a whispered ‘good luck!’.

It still bemused her when she thought back to her conversation with her supervisor, Dr. Langdon, two days earlier. Apparently there had recently been a spate of murders that required the services of a dead languages expert. And since Professor McCoy was on leave following his mental breakdown, that mantle fell to Clara.

“It surprised me as much as it does you, _Miss_. Preston.” The senior professor said haughtily. The fact that he still refused to use her proper title made her want to hit him. Instead, she had smiled and thanked him for the opportunity.

She paused outside her door to get her breathing under control and tuck a stray hair that had fallen from her clip behind her ear. Steadying herself, she pushed open the door with a brilliant smile.

“Sorry I’m late, agen- oh, _son of a bitch._ ”

****

The two suited men turned as she entered, serious faces shifting from shocked to confused to, finally, surprised happiness.

“ _Clara?”_ Sam said, moving forward to envelope her in a hug. She was stunned into silence at the sight of them both.

“Wait, I thought you were Clara Belfore?” Sam said as he pulled back. “We’re here to see Dr. Preston about a case.”

She found her voice. “Yeah, that’s me. Preston’s my legal surname – my mother’s. I would have changed it, but Preston happens to be a serious name in this business, and I’ll take what street cred I can get. Mum didn’t give me shit, but at least I got a name that made people look twice. Pretty sure it’s the only reason they hired me here, though they were _not_ pleased when they found out I was not, in fact, related to the great archaeologist Hugo Preston.” Clara was rambling and she shook herself, annoyed at how easily she had gotten side-tracked. “What the hell are you doing here?” she spied an FBI badge in Dean’s hand and stepped forward. “Impersonating FBI agents?” she hissed at him. The brothers shared a look.

“Yeah, we uh, do that sometimes.” Sam said awkwardly. Clara blinked and then sighed, rounding her desk and falling into her office chair. “What have you been doing since we saw you last? It’s been, what, three years?”

_Three years, four months, fourteen days._ Clara thought. She still had dreams about the basilisk wrapped around her throat. She motioned at the tiny room around them, walls littered with certificates, books and artifacts.

“Got my degree, and then this. Working.”

“I thought you wanted to be a curator?”

“I did – do. But I needed academic and real-world experience for that, so for now I’m stuck here.” It was just at that moment that Dr. Langdon appeared in the doorway, short and skinny and sour as lemon. He scowled in Clara’s direction and then turned to the ‘agents’ shaking their hands.

“Agents,” he said, his voice measured and almost jovial. “I do so apologise for the… pedigree of the help we can offer you here. Unfortunately, our expert in dead languages has found himself in a mental institution. So, Miss. Preston here will do her very best to suffice.”

It didn’t escape either Sam nor Dean’s notice that Dr. Langdon had avoided calling Clara doctor. Langdon excused himself with a final warning glance at Clara, and then closed the door behind him. The three of them were silent for a moment before Dean turned to look at her.

“Well.” He said, sinking into his chair. “He’s a dick.”

Clara snorted and looked at her watch – it was close enough to five, she decided. Standing, she reached into a filing cabinet and procured a half-drunk bottle of bourbon and two glasses. She poured Sam and Dean a glass each and then found her old coffee mug, sniffed at it, deemed it clean enough and poured herself a generous helping. The three of them took a sip, relishing the burn for a moment. Clara took in the two men before her. They seemed older, but it wasn’t just physical – there was an exhaustion in Dean’s eyes that hadn’t been there three years ago, a tightness in Sam’s shoulders that made her wince. The younger Winchester’s hair was longer, the shadow of scruff covering his jaw. Dean… he looked the same, physically, but there was something else that Clara couldn’t put her finger on. She finished her drink, poured another, and then leaned back in her chair.

“Well. I’m glad to see you both, honestly.” She smiled at the surprised look on their faces. “I mean, I’m glad to see you _alive._ I got the impression longevity isn’t really part of the lifestyle.”

Sam tilted his head. “Yeah, well… we’re still kickin’.” There was something behind his words that made her shift in her seat and want to change the subject.

“So, _agents_ , what can I do for you?”

Dean chuckled and glanced at Sam as he drained his glass. Sam shook his head and made to stand.

“No, Clara, it’s all good. Really. We don’t want to drag you back into this. We’ll find someone else.”

Clara rolled her eyes at him. “Sit your arse down, Winchester. Truthfully, this is the most excitement I’ve had since I started working here – these dinosaurs treat me like a glorified TA. I’ve been here eighteen months and I’ve only lectured twice. Most of the time I’m sat here marking or editing their piss-poor excuses for academic articles.” She leaned forward, looking him dead in the eye. “What’ve you got?”

Sam looked at her for a moment, calculating, before he sighed and pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. He thumbed through it for a moment before laying it screen up on the desk. Clara inhaled sharply at the image – a cadaver, laying naked from the waist up on the cold metal table of a morgue. But it was the symbol carved on the flat of the poor woman’s chest that drew Clara’s attention. She frowned, picking up the phone and zooming in to get a better look.

“Is that…” she trailed off, her eyes flicking up to find Sam’s.

“We have no idea. I couldn’t find it in any of our books – not Latin, Egyptian, Arabic, Hebrew… Nothing I’ve seen before.”

Clara chewed on her lip. “You mind if I send this to myself?”

Sam flicked up his hand in a ‘go for it’ motion. “There’s more.”

“ _More?”_

Dean broke in then. “Three more victims, all with a different symbol carved into their chests. Coroner says they were stabbed to death, but can’t figure out what the weapon is. But we do know one thing – It definitely wasn’t done with a knife.”

He rounded the desk and leaned over Clara, pointing to the stab wounds littering the woman’s stomach. “See that? The tearing on the wound? Doc says, if he didn’t know any better, that the vic had impaled herself on a stalagmite, not a smooth blade – but there’s no hint of anything in the wound to suggest what the weapon is.”

“Damn.” Clara whispered as she flicked through the other photos.

“If you can figure out what the symbol is, give us a general idea on where it came from… we’ll have a much better chance of figuring out how to put this thing down.” Sam said, watching Clara’s face carefully as she analysed the photo.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Her fingers flew over the screen and then her own phone buzzed – it was an unknown number, of course. He had changed phones a few dozen times since they first met years ago. Clara glanced at it, and then at him.

“You kept my number?”

Even Dean looked at him, eyebrow arched and the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. Sam flushed and took his phone from Clara’s hands. “Yeah, I uh…” he cleared his throat. “We should get going, Dean – we said we’d catch up with the sheriff again before the day wrapped up, remember?”

“Where is this all happening?” Clara asked, scrambling to stand as Sam did.

“Bishop – little town about 20 minutes south of here.”

“Okay. Well, give me tonight – I’ll look into this. I’ve got some books at home that might be promising.” She bent over her desk and scribbled something on a notepad. She tore the sheet free and handed it to Sam. “My address – I’ll text you when I find something and you guys can meet me there, ‘kay?”

_When, not if._ Sam thought to himself. _At least she’s confident_.

“Yeah, Sounds good.” Dean said, patting Clara’s shoulder firmly. “thanks, _Doctor_ Preston. It’s really good to see you again.”

Clara smiled at him and then at Sam. “You too. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

**** 

Dean drummed his fingers restlessly on the tabletop in their shitty two bed motel room. They’d only been able to get singles, and while it was amusing watching Sam try to fold himself up to fit all of himself on the bed, Dean was getting sick of how little space they had. He missed the bunker, his bedroom. Sam sat opposite him, still searching through online databases to see if he could come up with any answers. It had been over 36 hours since they’d last seen Clara back at her tiny office at the university, eyes alight with excitement at the prospect of the project ahead of her. They’d had minimal contact, mainly Sam texting her possible monsters or languages to translate the symbols from, and her sending back a single thumbs down emoji. Finally, Sam sighed and rubbed his face before closing the laptop in from of him. He looked at the clock on the wall – twelve past ten. He hadn’t noticed the sun set hours ago. Groaning, he heaved himself up and stretched, moving for the fridge and pulling out two beers. Twisting the caps off he passed one to Dean and took a long swig from his own.

“How long should we give her?” Dean asked. “She said to give her a night, and we’re rounding out on two now. We still have no idea what the hell we’re dealing with.” He took another drink and slammed the bottle back down on the table a little too harshly. “I hate sitting here with our thumbs up our asses.”

“She’ll figure something out, Dean. we just gotta give her a bit of time.” He stared pointedly at his brother. “Research isn’t always as easy as I make it look, you know.”

Dean huffed a laugh at that, and Sam smiled a little.

“Besides, we know we’ve got a bit of time. The killings so far have all been six to eight days apart – there’s no reason to think that pattern will change. We’ve still got two and half days minimum if it’s going to go after another vic.”

Eventually they both gave up on hearing from Clara that night and went to bed sometime around eleven thirty.

Sam slipped into sleep slowly, and then all at once. He found himself walking down a dark hallway, stone or maybe concrete beneath his bare feet. Something glowed red at the end of the hall and he found himself moving towards it, walking at first and then suddenly he broke out into a sprint, the hallway stretching away from him and the glow getting, impossibly, further away. Just as he felt his lungs catch fire with the effort the light flickered out. He was plunged into total darkness and then he was falling, tumbling head over heels until he could no longer tell up from down. He landed with a crash and opened his eyes.

“Hiyah, bunk buddy.”

And then he was screaming and bleeding and oh god his lungs were _actually on fire now_ and Lucifer was laughing as he peeled another strip of muscle away from Sam’s bones and _holy fuck_ it hurt-

Sam lunged upwards, gasping and stifling a shout as he wrenched awake, cold sweat soaking through his shirt and rolling down his neck. Dean, thankfully, was still asleep. Sam breathed deeply, in and out, until his heart rate slowed enough for him to count the beats individually. He checked his phone and groaned – just before three in the morning. He stank, and wanted nothing more than the wash the feeling of that nightmare off of him. It had been weeks since he had dreamed of Lucifer, of the cage. He slipped from his sweat drenched sheets and made his way to the bathroom, closing the door softly before flicking the light on so he didn’t wake his older brother. As he stepped under the spray he fought against the memories of the cage that he promised Dean he didn’t really think about anymore, even though they were with him every second. A pounding on the door jerked him from his thoughts and he turned the shower off. He wrapped a towel around his hips and cracked the door open. Dean was standing there, hair sleep-mussed but eyes totally alert. He held Sam’s phone to his ear.

“Yeah, Clara, that’s awesome. We’ll be there in twenty.” He ended the call. “we gotta go. Your girl’s found something.”

“She’s not-” Sam started, and then clenched his jaw shut. He rummaged through his duffle for clean clothes and dressed quickly in the jeans and grey tee, wet hair dripping to darken the fabric around his neck. He threw on a flannel and buttoned it up halfway before snagging his boots in one hand, his phone and gun in the other and chased after Dean. His brother was already dressed and out the door, warming up the Impala. Sam’s bare feet slapped against the cold concrete of the exterior walkway and he was transported back to his dream for a moment.

“Yo, Sammy!” Dean called, and Sam shook himself free of the nightmare, closing the door to the motel room and making for the car. He was barely inside before Dean took off, heading back towards Athens and, hopefully, answers.

****

Twenty minutes later Dean and Sam stood outside Clara’s door. Dean raised his hand to knock, but the door flew open before his knuckles could make contact. Clara stood before them, buzzing with energy, looking a bit of a mess. Her dark hair was up in a knot at the top of her head, two pencils sticking out from it. She wore no makeup and had deep circles under her eyes, covered slightly by the same round gold glasses she had worn three years ago. Her lips were red and just starting to become chapped – it was obvious she had been chewing at them. Dressed in tights, thick socks and a massively oversized flannel, she yanked the men into her house and shut the door. At the slightly wigged out looks coming from the Winchesters she laughed.

“Sorry, I’ve been watching for you.”

“You okay, Clara?” Sam asked, concerned. Her left hand tapped out a constant pattern on her thigh and she was chewing her lip again.

“What? Yeah, no, fine. Better than, actually.” She smiled, a megawatt grin of triumph. “I figured it out.”

She led them through the small house to the back room, an open living area absolutely littered with papers and books. She had taken a print of La Boheme off the wall and rested it against the fireplace. The wall where it used to hang was _covered_ in pieces of paper, symbols and notes scrawled all over them. Sticky notes with shorthand in black ink punctuated certain sheets. In the centre of the chaos was a map of Bishop and the surrounding area with red lines running across it, the photos Sam had shared with her stuck to the corresponding locations where each of the bodies had been found. Sam and Dean stared at the room, speechless.

“…Shit.” Dean breathed. “Went a little beautiful mind, don’t you think?”

She turned to face them. “I knew I’d seen similar symbols before, _knew it_. But it took me a while to connect the dots, because why the hell would a malignant spirit from _literally_ the other side of the world find itself in Georgia, right?” She didn’t pause for a response, her words rapid-fire and hard to keep up with. Needing an outlet for her energy, she began pacing, her hands making fluttery gestures as she spoke. The brothers shared a worried glance. “But then I remembered a book I owned as a kid – well, I mean, I stole it but that’s beside the point – and thought that the symbols kinda looked like that and so I did some research and found out it’s a bastardised version of Australian Aboriginal symbolism, which I mean is so unlikely but I looked deeper and it-”

Sam cut her off, grabbing her by the arms and forcing her to still. She looked at him, wide-eyed, and opened her mouth to speak.

“Uh!” Sam said. She closed her mouth, frowned.

“But-” She started, only for Sam to cut her off again.

“Nope! Clara, chill out. We’ve got time, okay? Slow down.” His eyes fell on the empty mug on the coffee table. “When was the last time you slept? Ate?”

Clara closed her eyes, thinking. “Uh… I can’t remember, but I’m fine, really. Not hungry, not sleepy.”

“How much coffee have you had?”

“Is that relevant?” She pouted, suspecting her answer would not be well received. Sam rolled his eyes. She shook free of his grasp. “Look, you came to me for help, yeah? So, let me help.”

This time it was Dean that was shaking his head. “Nope, Sammy’s right. Take a look at yourself, Clara – you’re wrecked. You haven’t slept, haven’t eaten, and by the smell of you you haven’t showered either. Your hands are shaking. A good friend of ours went down the round you’re on right now – it wasn’t pretty. So, I’m gonna make you some food, and you’re gonna go shower. Then, if you don’t pass out, we can talk.”

Clara thought for a moment, then sighed. She was starting to get hungry and a headache pulsed behind her eyes, from too much caffeine or exhaustion she couldn’t tell. A traitorous yawn rose in her throat and escaped her mouth despite her best efforts. Once it subsided, she found the two brothers looking at her pointedly. She raised her hands in defeat.

“Fine!” Clara pointed them to the kitchen and stomped up the stairs to the bathroom.

The shower was, admittedly, fantastic. As she worked shampoo through her hair to her scalp, massaging the headache away, she let her mind wander. In truth, she couldn’t remember researching something as passionately as she had this case. Sure, she had pulled her fair share of all-nighters in college, but this had been different – until Sam had forced her to stop, she truly hadn’t been tired, or hungry, or slightly concerned about anything but the research. The adrenaline had thrilled through her when she had first spied a match to a symbol carved into one of the victims, the excitement only mounting when she found a spirit that fit the MO they were facing perfectly. She had felt a perverse pride at the fact that she, an Australian, was going to help hunt down an Australian monster.

Finally, Clara dragged herself from the hot water, towelled off and collected the clothes she had been wearing earlier, wrinkling her nose at the spicy stink of BO that emanated from them. She tossed them into the dirty clothes basket and wrapped the towel around her.tHer room was just across the hall. Deep in thought, she slide on a comfy pair of navy wide-legged cotton pants she had bought while travelling through New Guinea last September and a white t-shirt, knotting it just above the top of the pants around her waist. She pulled on a pair of socks and collected her hairbrush, dragging it through her wet hair as she descended the stairs and rejoined the Winchesters. Sam watched her approach, a slight smile playing on his lips. He had a mug in his hand, the tell-tale scent of coffee wafting from it.

“Better?”

Clara nodded. “Much. Sorry, about earlier… I got kinda obsessed. Deep dive, and all that.”

Sam held up a hand. “Don’t apologise, please – you’re doing us a massive favour, here. We’re really grateful, Clara.” She smiled at that and, feeling comfortable and a little cheeky, swiped the mug from Sam’s hands and lifted it to her lips, taking a sip before he could stop her. She scrunched up her nose at the taste.

“Jesus, that’s sweet. What did you do, dump the whole sugar jar in there?”

Sam pulled the mug from her hands and she laughed a little. Rounding the kitchen bench she pulled a mug for herself from the shelf, reaching for the coffee pot between them. Quick as lightning, Sam grabbed it up and pulled it from her reach.

“Hey!” She protested. Sam was smiling a little ruefully.

“No more coffee for you tonight. Wouldn’t want you having a heart attack.”

“Oh, please, I’m a big girl.” She made a grab for the jug and failed. “Sam!”

It was then that Dean appeared from the bathroom, drying his hands on his jeans. He took in the scene in front of him.

“Back me up, Dean.”

Dean smirked and leaned on the counter. “I’ll make you a deal, Clara. You hold out your hand, palm down, for ten seconds – if it doesn’t shake you can have the whole damn pot.”

Clara sighed and defiantly held out her hand – it started trembling immediately. Neither brother could contain their laughter as Clara flushed, shaking her hand to get rid of the tremor. The boys’ laughter was infectious, however, and she couldn’t help but smile.

Dean made eggs and toast (“No Clara, sit your ass down, I’ve got this”) and the three of them sat in companionable silence as they ate. The second Clara took her first bite she moaned, eliciting a snort from Dean.

“Good?” He asked as she chewed, eyes closed.

“So good.” She dug in, eating easily twice what either of them did. Finally, with the dishes stacked in the dishwasher, and satisfied that Clara wasn’t going to pass out on them, the Winchesters sat in the living room as she explained her findings.

“The symbols are all warnings – Aboriginal Australians would carve them into trees or stones to signify meeting places, for example, or, once white colonists took over, areas that were safe or not safe for Aboriginals to travel through.” She swallowed and reached across the coffee table to hand Sam a book – an almost exact copy of the symbol carved onto the third victim’s chest stared back at him from the page. “That’s a warning symbol. ‘Stay away’ basically, but because its carved onto her body and not onto a tree or something where she was found, I think it has a slightly different meaning. Basically, not so much a warning, but a…” she searched for the word. “A threat. ‘stay away or else’ kind of thing.”

Clara took a breath. The Winchesters watched her silently, waiting for her to continue. She sat down on the coffee table in between them, her knee just brushing against Sam’s jeans. her heartbeat jumped for a second – he didn’t notice.

“And that reminded me of the Malingee.”

“Mali-what?” Dean interrupted, scooting forward a bit.

“Malingee,” Clara repeated. “They’re a malignant spirit from the Dreamtime – the story of creation as told by the Aboriginal people, basically – mostly harmless, unless a human comes across them. The Malingee will stab them to death with their stone knife.”

“That would explain the irregularities in the stab wounds.” Sam said thoughtfully. “How does it choose its victims?”

The woman in front of them turned her torso to reach behind her and Sam felt his breath hitch at the sight of the pale skin over her ribs, milk-white against the navy of her pants. He pulled his eyes away from the exposed flesh a second before Clara turned back to face him, a printout in hand. “As far as I can tell, they don’t. They’re looking for a home, and if they come across a human while searching – and that human isn’t scared off by their shining red eyes and joints that clack together – then the Malingee will attack and kill them.” She shuddered. “Messily.”

“Great.” Dean said grimly. “How do we kill it?”

“That’s the thing.” She responded, swallowing hard. “As far as I can tell, it can only be killed by its own knife – a clean shot to the eye.”

****

Sam had finally convinced Clara to go to bed as the sun began to rise. She had been swaying, dead on her feet, next to Dean in front of her map as they tried to narrow down possible locations for the Malingee. Eventually Sam had caught sight of her yawning again and ordered her to bed, even going so far as to follow her up the stairs. For a brief moment at the door to her bedroom she thought about asking him to stay with her, but she had pushed that thought away, said as light-hearted a ‘night!’ as she could muster and closed the door gently in his face.

She had expected more pushback from them on the monster front, expected them to think she was dragging her home country into the hunt because it was familiar. But they had accepted it without a word, turning to strategies and weaponry and asking her questions about the Malingee whenever they needed more information. Now, as she sank into blissful sleep, she thought that maybe, just maybe, she could get used to this.

****

“Run that by me again?” Dean said, staring at his brother as if he had grown another head.

“We go in, unarmed, and wait for it to come to us.” Sam said again. “Clara said we’d know it was nearby when we hear its knees knocking together, and glowing red eyes in a dark forest won’t exactly be hard to miss.”

“Why unarmed?” Dean didn’t like the idea of leaving his beloved handgun behind.

“Because none of the vics were, Dean.” Sam said, exasperated. “It’s hunting season – that forest is crawling with guys with guns, and none of then saw or heard a thing. It clearly stays away from weapons. If we’re gonna draw the Malingee to us, we need to go in unarmed.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like anything we own will work on it.”

Dean reluctantly admitted his younger brother had a point. “Fine, whatever. The pattern’s six to eight days, right? So we head out tomorrow night.”

Sam nodded. “Tomorrow night.”

****

The brothers were gone when Clara woke up at noon. When she realised they were gone, she felt the surprising flutter of panic in her gut. That is, until she caught sight of the note on the kitchen bench, held down under an empty coffee mug.

‘headed out for some food, back soon. Coffee in the pot.’

That was clearly Dean’s writing, because scrawled beneath it hastily were the words:

‘three cups max, Clara!’

She laughed softly to herself and filled the mug, sipping contentedly at the hot black brew as she padded through to the living room. It was still a complete mess, but she felt a massive sense of pride as she looked over her work. _There’s the beginnings of a book here_. She thought to herself, but it didn’t fill her with the excitement she expected. Her whole life, she had wanted to be an academic, though when she was younger she didn’t realise it. Now though… the thought of going back to her cramped little office in that closed-minded university filled her with something a little like despair. The thought of doing this again, of working with hunters and finding answers that _real people_ could use in the _real world_ … well, that did send a shivery thrill down her spine. She turned as her front door swung open, revealing Sam with a tray of cardboard cups in his hand and Dean behind him with two substantial paper bags in his hands.

“You’re up!” Sam said, smiling at her. Her stomach flipped and she stamped down on the feeling. _Chill Clara, damn_. “Sleep well?”

“Yep. Ready and raring to go, as my pop used to say.”

She led them into the kitchen and poured herself another cup of coffee. Sam looked at her sceptically, smiling when she held up two fingers and wriggled them in the air as she took a sip. They ate, the atmosphere leaps and bounds from last night. Clara laughed along with the boys, teasing and joking with one another. It was comfortable. Easy. Once they were finished, Clara reluctantly turned to the matter at hand.

“So, what’s the plan for the Malingee?”

Dean inclined his head. “Sammy and I’ll head out about seven – thanks to you, we have a pretty good idea of its general location. We’ll go unarmed, like the rest of the victims, and hopefully draw it to us and take it down.” He shrugged and took a slurp of his milkshake. “Simple.”

“Sammy and I?” Clara set her jaw. “where am I in this scenario?”

The brothers shared a glance – it was starting to bug her, how often they had silent conversations in front of her.

“You’re here. Safe.” Sam said in a tone that screamed ‘and that’s final’.

“But last time-”

“Last time,” Sam interjected, not unkindly. “You nearly got killed. Not happening again. You’ve done your part, Clara, and tonight Dean and I will do ours.”

“Guys-”

“It’s not a negotiation, Clara.” Dean said, his voice steel. “We’re not putting you in its line of fire, particularly when we have no choice but to be unarmed. So, you’ll stay here, and we’ll take care of the Malingee. End of discussion.”

Clara sat back, pissed off not even beginning to describe how she was feeling. But the look in their eyes told her that this was an argument she wouldn’t win.

“Whatever.” She said. “I need to go for a run.” In truth, she hated running, preferring how she felt after a run to any part before that, but the thought of sitting around watching the clock tick slowly towards seven o’clock made her feel antsy.

Sam looked up at her. “Mind if I tag along? I haven’t been for a run in ages.”

_Unexpected_. If there was one thing Clara hated more than running, it was running with someone else, but she found herself nodding.

“Sure,” her mouth said of its own accord. “Feel free.”

An hour later they were jogging down the pavement, Clara setting the pace. She was already getting red in the face (downside of being pale) and the mid-afternoon sun was surprisingly hot for this time of year. She snuck a look at Sam beside her – he looked like he had just stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad, the bastard. They crossed the road and entered a park, the pavement turning to gravel under their feet. Warmed up, Clara ratcheted up the pace until they were pounding along, her breath a sweet burn in her lungs. _Okay,_ she thought grudgingly. _It’s not that bad._ She got lost in the beat of her heart and the impact of her feet, startling when she felt Sam’s hand on her shoulder as he slowed. She ran a few more steps and then came to a stop, hands on her hips as she panted, sweat running in rivulets down her face. Sam was bent at the waist, panting as hard as she was. He glanced up at her, long hair partially obscuring his face as he held his side.

“Stitch.” He said in explanation. Clara smiled and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him upright. He groaned.

“Quit it, you big baby.” She pulled his hands from his side and lifted them. “Do this.” She let go of him and lifted her own arms, bent upwards at the elbow at a right angle and twisted her torso from side to side, breathing in deeply through the nose and out through her mouth. Sam watched for a moment and then mirrored her movements, cracking a smile as the stitch ebbed away.

“I’ll have to remember that one.” He said.

She winked at him. “You’re welcome.” She realised then how close they were standing to each other, gazes locked and breath mingling just a touch. Clara almost thought Sam started to lean in when his phone rang and he stepped back, fumbling the phone to his ear.

“Yeah?” Sam rolled his eyes at Clara. “Yeah, Dean whatever. We’re on our way back.”

He slid his phone back into his pocket. “Dean says that, when we’re finished being freaks, we have to pick up some pie and head on back.”

“Pie?” Clara cocked her head.

“His favourite. Come on, I’ll race you back to the road.”

****

The high from her run and her… moment with Sam faded as the time for the boys to leave drew closer. At six she had given up and opened a bottle of wine, silencing any rebukes with a glare. By seven she was onto her third glass and resolved to stop there, in case something went wrong and they needed her for… well. Anything. She stoppered the bottle and put it in the fridge.

“Alright, we’re going to head out.” Sam said to her. Dean was already out the door, itching to get it over with and get back to his pearl-handled gun. A wave of anxiety washed over her and without a second thought Clara threw her arms around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him in tight.

“Stay safe.” She whispered softly into his neck, and then pulled away. “Don’t let Dean do anything stupid.”

Sam laughed at that and promised to be back soon. Then, the door closed behind him and Clara was alone.

She sat with her chin resting on her hands, watching the clock, for two hours before the door slammed open.

“Clara!” Sam’s voice was rough with panic. She leapt into action, rushing to the foyer and stalling at the sight of Dean, limp and barely conscious in his brother’s arms. There was blood covering both of them, so much blood. “Clara!” Sam’s voice snapped her out of her daze.

“Yeah, fuck, yeah go to the kitchen.” The hall was too narrow for her to help bear the weight of the eldest Winchester in any meaningful way, so she rushed ahead, pulling her first aid kit from the top of the fridge and snagging a bottle of bourbon from the counter. Sam hauled his brother into the island counter and tore his shirt open. Blood welled from half a dozen stab wounds to his stomach. Clara felt sick.

“He needs a hospital. Sam! We have to call 911.”

Sam looked at her desperately. “No, we just need to keep him alive until Cas can get here.”

“Who’s Cas?” Clara asked frantically as she tore a dishtowel from its hanger and pressed it over the worst of the gouges in Dean’s stomach. The man groaned and bucked under her at the pain.

“Cas!” Sam was shouting. “Cas, goddamnit, get your ass down here.”

_He’s insane_. Clara thought distantly. She looked down – the towel was already soaked through. Dean was pale as death, his eyes rolling back into his head.

“Hey! Dean, don’t you fucking dare!” Clara slapped him lightly, and then harder. He gasped, eyes sharpening for a second.

“Cas!” Sam was still shouting to the ceiling, raking his bloody hands through his hair. “Fucking hell, Cas, its _Dean_!”

Clara heard, rather than felt, the rush of air at her shoulder and shrieked as a man in a trench coat materialised at her side. He didn’t so much as spare her a glance as he reached out and pressed two fingers to Dean’s forehead. Clara fell back as his wounds, there and bleeding and terrifying one second, disappeared utterly beneath her hands. The only sign that it hadn’t been a hallucination was the blood-stained cloth in her hand and the red-streaked clothes of the brothers. Cas turned to her then, taking in her stunned silence.

“Hello.” His voice was low and gravelly, not at all what she expected.

“Oh, uh… Hi.” Clara replied, her eyes wide and darting towards Sam.

“Clara, this is Castiel, he-”

“I am an angel of the lord.” Cas scrutinised her.

“Huh… as in, God? Capital G?”

“Yes.”

She put down the cloth and turned to face Sam. “Guess I better brush up on my praying, then.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Cas said with a smile that looked just a touch unnatural. “He doesn’t care about you little people.”

“Cas, Jesus.” All three of them turned their attention to Dean, sitting up slowly on the bench.

“He doesn’t get social cues, Clara.” Dean shrugged out of his ruined shirt and dropped to the floor. “Ignore ‘im. Shower?”

Clara pointed wordlessly to the stairs and Dean nodded, going in that direction.

“You could say thank you, Dean.” Cas said.

“I owe you one.” He shot back over his shoulder, before disappearing up the stairs.

Cas appraised Sam and Clara. “I should go too.”

Clara blinked, and he was gone. “What the fuck…”

“Yeah, it takes a bit to get used to.” Sam chuckled uncomfortably. Clara rounded on him.

“And what the _fuck_ happened out there, huh? What was that?”

Sam sighed and shrugged out of his bloodied jacket, reaching for the bottle of bourbon Clara had pulled from the other counter. He poured each of them a glass and then started to explain.

The brothers had arrived at the forest a little after seven thirty. They had walked together for a while and come across nothing. Eventually they decided to split up, but to stay in shouting distance. Sam had heard Dean cry out and had gotten to him just as the Malingee had fallen on his older brother, stabbing viciously at his stomach as Dean tried to fight it off. Sam had charged and tackled it, sending the monster rolling away. It had been one of the strangest things he had ever seen, he told her. Short, but with overlong limbs that were bent out at what would have been elbows and knees. The way it moved caused its knees to clap together like two stones hitting each other. Its eyes were huge and bug-like over a surprisingly tiny mouth. The knife in its hand was short and jagged, and Sam would have though it incapable of tearing flesh if he hadn’t just seen what it had done to his brother. The Malingee had rushed at him then and Sam had dropped to the ground, knocking its legs out from under it, seizing its knife hand and smoothly guiding it into its own eye. The Malingee had clicked and shrieked as it died, but it _had_ died. When the glow of its eyes dimmed, Sam had hauled ass back to Clara’s place with Dean barely conscious in the passenger seat, calling for Cas the whole time.

Dean joined them as Sam wrapped up the tale, clean and freshly clothed. He dropped Sam’s duffle at his feet and grunted his appreciation as Clara poured him a drink. Sam took his turn in the bathroom and Clara, tentatively, asked Dean about Cas.

The older Winchester told her little, only that Cas was their friend but he had fucked up in a big way and was trying to fix it. Clara had nodded, not wanting to push the matter, and nursed her drink until Sam had returned. It was nearing eleven and she could see in his eyes that he was bone tired.

“You guys should stay the night.” She blurted out. The both looked at her and she elaborated. “I mean, its late, you’re both exhausted, and I have a spare room and a couch. You’re welcome to stay.”

“If it’s not too much trouble…” Sam started.

She waved him off. “Come on, I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t serious. You guys figure out who gets the couch, and I’ll go get some sheets.”

By the time she returned Dean had lost three rounds of three to Sam in paper scissors rock and grumbled as Clara handed him the sheets.

“I’m going to bed.” She said, throwing back the last of her bourbon and wincing slightly at the burn. “Come on Sam, I’ll show you your room.” He followed her quietly up the stairs and she gestured to the open door on her left. He entered and dropped his duffle bag on the bed, turning back to face her as she leaned against the doorframe.

“Big day.” She said. Sam huffed a laugh and ran his hand through his almost dry hair.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“What’s next for you guys?”

“Well, we’ll probably head back home for a bit tomorrow, and then go from there.”

“Where’s home?” Clara knew she was being unnecessarily nosy, but a part of her didn’t want to stop hearing his voice just yet.

“A Men of Letters bunker, outside of Lebanon Kansas. You should come visit sometime.” He said that last part almost shyly and Clara felt a flutter in her chest. “You’d always have a bed if you wanted one.”

“Sam… what you said to me last time, about helping you guys… does that offer still stand?” Clara tripped over her words, hardly believing she was voicing them. Her heart sank as Sam frowned.

“Clara…”

“No, never mind, sorry. Of course… anyway. Good night!” She moved away but was stopped short by Sam’s hand grasping her bicep and swinging her around.

“No, I didn’t… of course it still stands. You’re an asset, Clara. But I thought… your dad. Curating. Isn’t that your dream?”

Clara stared deep into his hazel eyes, almost losing herself.

“It was, once. But what you do… I told you three years ago that I couldn’t do it. And I’ve been kicking myself ever since. If you’ll have me… and of _course_ you’ll have to talk to Dean about it, but I’d like to give it a go. Be useful.”

“It isn’t easy. Honestly, most of the time it’s five kinds of fucked up with a dash of strapped for cash.”

Clara gestured towards the stairs, where her kitchen sat covered in blood. “And that was, what, a walk in the park? I get it’s not all fun and games. But sometimes the harder path is worth it.”

“Okay then.” He said, releasing her arm. “Get some sleep, and we’ll talk more about it in the morning.”

****

Clara was up at dawn. She hadn’t really slept, tossing and turning, images of blood and torn flesh and glowing eyes playing like a bad movie across the back of her eyelids. She gave up as the sky began to grey with the imminent start of the new day and padded down the stairs, grimacing at the mess of the kitchen and living room. Dean was nowhere to be found, though the mess of sheets on the couch made it clear he had slept at some point. She searched her hallway table for a moment and found a hair tie, throwing her hair up into a tight ponytail before she got to work. Starting with the kitchen, she shook out a rubbish bag and dumped the remains of Dean’s shirt and the bloody dish towel inside, leaving it in the corner so she could take it out to the trash later. Then she took to scrubbing, not an inch of the kitchen missed. By the time she was done the sun was just parting from the horizon and the scent of bleach tickled the back of her throat. Satisfied that she had cleared the last of the blood, Clara peeled off her gloves and dropped them into the rubbish bag. She stopped for a minute to turn on the coffee pot and drain a glass of water before tackling the living room. Starting with the wall, Clara carefully gathered all of her notes, stapling together the ones that belonged together and bundling them all into some semblance of order. She found an old cardboard box from when she had first moved in and piled everything inside, labelling it ‘Malingee’. She was just clearing the rubbish away and tossing it on the bin bag when her front door creaked open. Curious, she peered down the hallway to see Dean closing the door with exaggerated care.

“Morning.” Clara said, giggling as he jumped.

“Hey, there.” He responded. Approaching her a little sheepishly. She caught a whiff of him – stale beer and sweat.

“Let me guess… Murphy’s? two streets over?”

Dean chuckled and nodded. “Couldn’t sleep. Needed a drink.”

Clara looked pointedly at the just visible hickey beginning to form at the base of his neck. “And something else, apparently.” She teased. He grinned at that.

“Hey, a man has needs!”

“Oh god, what have you done now, Dean?” Sam’s voice came from down the hall. His hair sleep-mussed and falling over his eyes as he rubbed sleep from them. He was barefoot, wearing sweats and a white t-shirt. Clara busied herself pouring coffee so he wouldn’t notice her staring.

“Cindy.” Dean said, a cocksure grin on his face. He looked relaxed, and Clara wasn’t going to argue with his method of stress relief.

“Dude, you smell like a bar,” Sam wrinkled his nose. “Go shower.”

Chuckling, Dean mounted the stairs and moments later they heard the shower turn on, Dean just audible over the water singing an AC/DC song Clara couldn’t remember the name of. She passed Sam a mug and slid the sugar bowl over to him before he could ask. She watched as he dumped at least three heaped spoonfuls of sugar into the mug.

“Disgusting.” Clara said, smiling. Sam snorted and drank anyway, making an exaggerated ‘ahhh’ sound when he finished. Clara moved to gather up the trash bag, but Sam beat her to it.

“Let me. Least I can do.” He said, twisting the opening of bag into a knot. Clara nodded and pointed out the back door to her bins and Sam vanished into the cool morning, reappearing as she was thumbing through the mass of missed calls, texts and emails on her phone. She groaned.

“What’s up?” Sam asked. She handed him her phone and his eyebrows shot up. There were dozens of angry messages and emails from her department back at the university – she hadn’t turned up for work for two days, no explanation, and without her carrying the other professor’s paperwork things were piling up. Langdon was, in a word, furious. It was nearing 8am, and if she was going to patch things up at all she would have to leave for work soon. She left Sam in the kitchen and flew up the stairs to get ready. Fifteen minutes later she was hooking her heel into a comfy brown oxford shoe at the base of the stairs. She wore the same wide-legged navy pant she had on the other day, but this time paired with a dove-grey blouse tucking into the waistband. She looked at herself in the hallway mirror and gathered her hair into a twist at the nape of her neck and secured it with an octopus clip, wiping a smudge of mascara from under her eye with her little finger. Sam and Dean were opposite each other on the couch, locked in conversation when she entered. Sam noticed her first, stopping mid-sentence at the sight of her. She tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear and smiled at him.

“I clean up good, huh?” She said lightly.

“Yeah, uh, not bad.” He responded, and Clara ignored the way his voice made her heart bounce.

“So. Sammy says you want in.” Dean said, twisting to face her. The look on his face was less comforting. “You sure, Clara? You saw how it can be. Dangerous.”

Clara nodded. “I do. I know what I’m getting myself into. I have savings, so I can pull my weight financially, and I want to help. Researching, ancient languages, the occult, legends – it’s literally my area of expertise.” She shrugged. “Besides, I’ll be lucky to still have a job after today if Langdon’s emails are anything to go by.”

Sam winced. “Clara, I’m really sorry-” She waved her hand to silence him.

“Don’t be. That place is stifling, and truth be told, I hated it. I’m not built for that stuff – writing articles that mean nothing and are useful for less. This way – if you’ll have me – I can actually do some good. My dad would be proud of that, I think.”

“That’s for damn sure.” Dean agreed. “You’re welcome to come stay with us – we’ve definitely got the room, and it’ll be handy to have an expert on hand. But if you want to stay here…”

“No, I’d like to come with you guys.” Clara couldn’t stop her smile at the prospect of the bunker – all that knowledge, that research, at her fingertips. It made her hands itch. “I mean, I wouldn’t be able to afford this place without a job anyway, and I’m keen to see this bunker of yours.” She considered. “I’d need a week or two to give notice here and pack up.”

“Would you need a hand?” Sam asked. “We can help with the move if you want.”

“Nah, I don’t have much. I rented this place furnished, and I’ve never been one for clutter. Ellie and I can handle it.”

Dean frowned at that. “Ellie?” He hadn’t signed up for two people.

Clara’s grin broadened and she snatched up her keys. “Come meet her.”

Dean whistled lowly as Clara flicked on the garage lights to reveal Ellie – a gunmetal grey 1972 El Camino. Dean ran a hand over her cab approvingly.

“Dad and I rebuilt her when I was a teenager.” Clara said as she unlocked the driver’s door and lowered herself into the leather seat. She clicked a button on her key fob and the garage door started to rise, sunlight flooding in. Started Ellie up, Clara tapped the accelerator, eliciting a rumble from the engine. “Think you’ll have room for her at the bunker?”

The look on Dean’s face was all she needed, and she laughed. “I’m gonna head into work, deal with Langdon. I’ll probably see you guys in a few hours, okay?” Dean nodded her off and Sam waved as she pulled out carefully.

Sam stood in the doorway, watching his brother drink in the car with an amused smirk on his face. _Yeah,_ he thought. _She’s going to fit in just fine._

****

The door swung shut behind her and she exhaled. Clara had managed to make it up to her office without seeing one member of staff, a small miracle considering how tiny their wing was. She knew she was going to have to deal with Langdon eventually, but she wanted to get a letter of resignation typed up and printed first – she could already picture exactly how she would hand it to him and smiled at the thought. She had only just slipped into her chair and started typing in her password when the door swung open, banging against the door stop and rattling the frames on her wall. Langdon stood in the doorway, exuding contempt. She just spied Debbie over his shoulder, horrified and mouthing _I’m so sorry_. Clara smiled briefly at her and turned her full attention to the old man in front of her.

“And just where do you think you’ve been, Miss. Preston?” He said, staring down the long line of his nose at her. she met his eyes coldly.

“Working, _Mr. Langdon._ ” She flashed a smile. It was a cheap shot, but satisfying. “With the FBI? Remember? They needed a dead languages expert.”

Langdon bristled at her tone. “You should mind your mouth when speaking to your superiors.” As he spoke, he stalked forward until it was just her desk between them. “I do hope you didn’t mess it up. I wanted to send for the professor from Atlanta, but-”

“I believe they found my work quite satisfactory.”

“Did they, now? Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe. You have been a liability since the day you were hired, Miss. Preston. I, personally, wanted no part of you-”

“No, really?” Clara couldn’t help but say sarcastically.

“But the Dean was convinced we needed a woman on board. Utterly ridiculous, of course. And you’ve proven what a lapse in judgement it was. Disappearing for days on end when you _should_ have been here, aiding the FBI in their efforts and by doing so improving the standing of this establishment in the academic community.” His voice had risen to shouting levels now, spittle flying with each outraged word.

Clara opened her mouth to defend herself when there was a sharp rap on the open door behind Langdon. Langdon turned and Clara caught a glimpse of the person there – Sam, dressed in his FBI get up.

“Sorry, for interrupting.” He said, shooting a glance at Clara. “I just wanted to-”

“Ah, Agent, I am so very sorry for Miss. Preston’s disappearing act,” Langdon had approached Sam and taken up his hand, shaking it energetically. “She has never been the most reliable girl, you see, so I have taken the liberty of-” The younger man yanked his hand free, lip curling.

“ _Doctor_ Preston has been incredibly helpful, actually. Unlike you. I’m here to speak with her, so if you wouldn’t mind…” He motioned for Langdon to move aside, and he did so, sputtering at the dismissal. Sam approached her as she rose from her seat, grinning as he winked at her. He arranged his face into a serious position and Clara had to purse her lips to keep from smiling as he reached his hand across the desk for her to shake.

“Doctor. On behalf of the FBI and the United States of America, thank you for your service these past few days.” Clara caught a glimpse of Langdon, behind Sam and off to the side, gaping like a fish out of water. “I’ve spoken with my partner and our superiors, and they would like to offer you a position with the bureau as an expert consultant, working side by side with our agents.”

She couldn’t hold back the grin this time. “I’d be delighted to come aboard.” She said. Leaning around Sam, she shot Langdon a faux-apologetic smile. “Consider this my two-weeks notice, Fred.”

Sam turned to face the old man. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a sensitive case to discuss with Doctor Preston. You can close the door on your way out.”

Whey-faced, Langdon did as he was told. As soon as the door clicked shut Clara exploded into a fit of giggles, Sam grinning like a madman.

“Did I lay it on a bit too thick?” He asked her as she wheezed. She shook her head, fighting to get her laughter under control.

“Well,” she gasped, “maybe a bit. But Christ, did you see his _face_?”

The two of them dissolved into laughter.

**Two Weeks Later**

Clara loaded the final box into Ellie’s tray, securing everything with a tarp and rope. She had been surprised at just how much stuff she had – most of it books that she hoped to add to the Bunker’s library. Still, it all fit neatly into the bed of the car, and Clara took one last look at the rental she was leaving behind. She had loved this place – it was her first real home after losing her dad. But she was filled with nothing but excitement as she drove away, headed towards Lebanon, Kansas. She paused at a red light and took the opportunity to flick Sam a text: ‘on my way! See you guys in a couple days.’

He responded almost instantly: ‘drive safe. Call me if you run into any trouble.’

She smiled and dropped the phone onto the passenger seat as the light turned green. Ellie revved eagerly under her and took off, windows down and whipping dark hair around her face. She was headed towards her future, her new life.

And she couldn’t be more ready to get started.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the unexpected hiatus - Covid's a bitch. hopefully I'll be able to post more regularly now!

It had been about six hours since Sam had last heard from Clara, but he wasn’t too worried. She had stopped a few hours out from Lebanon, too tired to keep driving and risk wrapping herself around a pole. Sam had decided on a run – he was filled with nervous energy at the prospect of Clara coming to join them at the bunker and figured a jog through the forest surrounding their home would help some.

The air was crisp, biting at his lungs with a fresh burn that had him gasping as he rounded the final bend on his return trip. He’d been running for a little over an hour now and even in the cold his shirt was drenched in sweat, hair clinging wetly to the back of his neck. As he approached the bunker doors the song playing in his ears faded away as his phone began to ring. Sam slowed to a stop and clicked the green answer button.

“Yeah,” He said warily. It was an unknown number. The line crackled and he pulled the phone away from his ear with a wince. “Hello?”

“Sam?” Clara’s voice cut through the static. “Thank god.”

“Clara? Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” She sounded embarrassed. “My phone shat itself and I have no clue how to get to yours – I’m in Lebanon, though.”

Sam huffed a laugh, the tight anxiety easing in his chest. “No worries, we’ve got plenty of burners lying around that you can use. Can you give me some landmarks?”

He could almost picture Clara’s face, a little crease forming high on her forehead as she looked around, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Sam leaned against the railing outside the bunker as Clara explained where she was – eventually, with Sam’s clear instructions scribbled onto her arm, she hung up and promised to be at the bunker in a bit. Noting the time and resolving to shower and change before she arrived, Sam jogged down the stairs and entered the bunker.

“Dean!” He called. “Clara’s about twenty minutes out.” As Sam passed the kitchen he caught a glimpse of his brother dressed in only a pair of boxers and a ratty old t-shirt, struggling to wake up over a cup of coffee.

“Dude,” Sam said. Dean looked at him, Winchester bitch-face making an appearance. “Come on, man. Clothes.”

Dean waved his hand dismissively and grunted. Still, he heaved himself to his feet and trudged back to his room to change.

By the time both of the Winchesters were dressed and seated in the war room, Dean pretending not to notice his younger brother drumming his long fingers anxiously on the tabletop, a half hour had passed.

“You think maybe she got lost again?” Dean asked, draining the last of his coffee.

Sam checked his watch and stood, moving towards the stairs. As his foot landed on the first step three firm knocks sounded on the bunker door and he quickened his pace, taking the steps two at a time. Dean stood and leaned back against the war table, crossing his arms casually over his chest as he watched Sam heave open the door.

“Jesus, you couldn’t make this place harder to find, could you?” Clara’s voice was light and teasing as she dropped her bag and held out her arms. Sam smiled and wrapped her in a hug. When they separated, Clara stepped over to the railing and took in the view. Her gold-rimmed glasses had slipped down her nose and she pressed them back up into position as she scanned the space.

“Wow,” she breathed. Her eyes fell on Dean and she grinned, giving him a little wave. “Nice digs.” She turned to grab her bag, but Sam had already scooped it up. He nodded to the stairs and she descended to the ground floor, striding over to Dean for another hug. He squeezed her tight and fast before letting her go.

“Any problems on the road?” He asked as Sam joined them, heaving Clara’s bag onto the table.

“Nah, not really. Though I think there’s a spark plug loose or something – I couldn’t figure it out, but Ellie’s been rattling a little for me past few miles.”

“I’ll check it out for you later,” Dean offered. “I’ll take her into the garage for you if you’d like.”

Clara eyed him as she handed over the keys. “Not a scratch!” she said, jokingly, but there was real concern in her voice.

Sam shook his head as Dean disappeared to deal with the car. “You’re just like Dean when it comes to your car.”

Clara went to respond but found herself overtaken by a sudden yawn. Truthfully, the drive had taken a lot out of her – she hadn’t done a long-haul trip for years, and not having another person to keep her company made it even harder. Sam rubbed her arm as the yawn subsided.

“Come on, I’ll show you your room.” He hefted her bag again and led the way through a maze of halls, eventually coming to a stop outside a slightly ajar. He nudged the door open to reveal a cozy double bed, framed by matching wooden side tables. A desk stood off to the left next to a sink and mirror, and a lamp stood on the top of a chest of drawers by the door. It was the empty, ornate bookcase that swallowed up the near right corner that drew Clara’s attention though. Sam smiled at the look on her face.

“I knew you’d want a place to put your books…. I found it at a thrift store in town. Pretty nice, right?” Clara nodded her head wordlessly. Nice didn’t even halfway describe it. The polished hardwood shelves gleamed dully in the light, carvings of wooded hills and trickling streams that almost looked like they were actually flowing through the wood patterned the outside surfaces. There were eight shelves, the middle two with lockable doors, glass windows encased with the same patterned dark wood.

“Sam… It’s beautiful.” She whispered, reaching out to trail her hands over a carving of a deer. It stared at her, those eyes almost alight with life. She turned to the younger Winchester. “Thank you, so much. I love it.”

He smiled again and rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t worry about it, Clara. ‘s nothing.”

She stepped closer, cheeks flushed. Gently she brushed her fingers over his hand, a smile playing across her lips as she looked up at him. “It’s not nothing, Sam, it’s-”

“You were right!” Dean called from down the hall. Spell broken, Clara shook her head and Sam stepped around her to put her bag down on the bed. The older Winchester appeared in the doorway, grease-stained cloth in his hands. “Loose sparkplug.”

“Told you,” Clara said. “Now where’s my girl?”

Dean and Sam showed her to her car, and she inspected it as subtly as possible before deciding that, okay, Dean wasn’t that bad a driver. They helped her with some of the boxes in the tray, mainly the books and the cooler stocked with the food and drinks from her fridge back in Georgia. Sam sat the last box of books down on her bed and then showed her through to the kitchen where she began to unload the cooler. He took the chance to dig up one of their spare burners, and made himself useful by switching out her sim from her broken phone to her new one. When he finished he set the phone down on the table and stretched.

“Coffee?” Sam asked. She looked at him and waggled her eyebrows in a way that made him laugh.

“Do you even have to ask?” She said. He inclined his head and poured her a cup, passing it to her over the table as she lowered the now-empty cooler to the ground, settling into her seat and sipping contentedly at the hot drink in her hands. It was cool down here, cooler than she expected – in all honesty, she hadn’t expected a _literal_ bunker. But there was something about it that thrilled excitement through her, and it took a surprising amount of will power to not go tearing off in exploration. Sam must have picked up on her thoughts and chuckled.

“So, time for a tour?” Clara grinned. She topped up her coffee cup and let Sam lead the way. He pointed out her room, furthest from the kitchen but closest to the bathroom. Sam’s was the next door down and Dean’s around the corner. They flattened their backs against the hallway wall as Dean staggered past with Clara’s box of research labelled ‘ _Malingee’,_ grumbling about women and their need for so much damn stuff. Clara rolled her eyes at that. As they wound their way through the maze of hallways, Clara gave up on trying to remember the way back – she was going to have to attach herself to one of the boys for the first few weeks so she didn’t get lost.

Sam showed her the shooting range, the dungeon (“really, Sam, a dungeon?”) The room dedicated to ingredients and, saving best for last, the library. Clara had caught a glimpse of it when she entered the bunker, but now that she was amongst it… she shivered. She trailed her fingers lightly over the spines of the books, awestruck. This was her profession, her field of knowledge, yet all these books… she had no clue who any of the authors were and knew the meaning behind less than half of the titles. Sam watched her drink in the room, settling into a wooden chair as she roamed. Finally she re-joined him at the table. Drawing her glasses from her face and resting them on the tabletop, Clara pinched the bridge of her nose and scrunched her eyes shut.

“It’s a lot.” Sam said sympathetically. Clara snorted and sank into a chair opposite Sam, resting her elbows on the table so she could cradle her chin in her hands.

“It’s incredible.” Searching his hazel eyes, Clara felt her heart squeeze a little. “I’m way out of my league, here.” She told him. He leaned in towards her.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much our general state of being.” He said, offering a kind smile. “Dean and I are gonna help you, okay? We don’t expect you to pick up and be a total expert overnight. And if you ever decide you don’t want this, then…” He shrugged. “But, Clara, we would have said no if we didn’t think you can handle it. The way you dealt with the Malingee, we would never have figured that one out without you.”

Clara smiled at him. He knew exactly what she needed to hear, and the earnestness in his voice almost had her believing it. She took a shaky breath, and then another. As she opened her mouth to speak, her stomach growled and the tension between them dissipated.

“Hungry?” Sam asked.

“Always.”

****

After they had eaten, Clara had showered and then began the mammoth task of unpacking. The first thing she did was dig out her Bluetooth speaker and hook it up to her new phone, blasting Gin Wigmore as she gathered her hair up into a ponytail and got to work. Eventually Sam found his way to her room and sat on her bed as she unpacked, thumbing through a couple of her books, chatting and laughing together. As the afternoon lengthened into evening Dean appeared with beers in hand and, kicking empty boxes out of the way, took a seat at the desk and joined the conversation. Clara was halfway through an embarrassingly funny story about her first Halloween in the USA (“Seriously, it was like that scene in Mean Girls – how the hell was I meant to know girls didn’t dress up in actual costumes?”) when the music stopped and her phone started to ring. She paused and picked up the phone, a light frown creasing the space between her eyebrows.

“Uncle Jay?” she said into the phone. “How’d you get this number?”

Dean and Sam shared a glance. That was generally never a good start to a conversation. They watched as she listened to the voice on the end of the line.

“This isn’t a good time. You shouldn’t even be calling me. I’m on the other side of the world, so I’m not useful to you anyway. Don’t call me again, Uncle Jay.” She winced and pulled the phone away from her ear at the barrage of cursing that almost blew through her speakers. “I’m hanging up now.” With that, she clicked the red button on the screen and tossed the phone onto the bed. The music resumed again, filling the silence between the three of them.

“So…” Clara said, fidgeting uncomfortably. “That was awkward.”

“Who was that?” Sam asked, leaning forward and unfolding one long leg so it swung off the edge of the bed. Clara sighed and went back to arranging her books on their shelves.

“My uncle. My mum’s brother. He’s just as nutty as she was, and my Australian family got it into their heads that, because I’m ‘working with the FBI’ I can start supporting their… _habits_.”

“How’d they find out about it?” Dean asked, swallowing down the last of his beer.

Clara hefted another book on the etymology of Aramaic dialects, shelving it between her copy of the Book of Beasts and the translation of an obscure manuscript she may or may not have swiped from the university as she cleared out her office. “I still keep in contact with one of my cousins, Jay’s daughter Gillian. I thought she had gone non-contact with her parents, but I guess not.”

“Are you okay?” Sam asked. He suspected whatever answer she gave wouldn’t be truthful. He watched as she swallowed, her throat bobbing, and then turned to face them.

“Yeah, ‘course.” She rolled her shoulders and grimaced at the mess around her. “Just a surprise to hear from him. It’s been years.”

“Clara-” Sam started.

“I’m good Sam, seriously. Don’t really want to talk about it.” She pointed at the empty bottle Dean had left on her desk. “Want another one?” she was already halfway out the door and headed for the kitchen. A second later her head reappeared around the doorframe, cheeky smile in place.

“If you can figure out my shelving system you can make yourselves useful ‘till I come back.”

She only got lost twice on her way to the kitchen and was back with three fresh beers within fifteen minutes. She leaned against the doorframe and watched the brothers squabble over her books.

“No dude, come on! It’s not alphabetical – Q comes before S. Jesus, it’s like you grew up under a rock.” Sam said, grabbing a book from his brother’s hands and shelving it higher up.

“Well who the hell categorises by publication date? How did you even come up with that idea, sasquatch?”

“It’s called chronology, Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Clara couldn’t help herself and burst into laughter. The boys turned to face her, exasperated.

“Guess you didn’t figure it out, huh?” She said, handing them their beers and approaching the bookcase. “It’s actually pretty simple.” She lifted out a book, flipped open the cover and ran her finger down until she hit the line she was looking for. Then, she flipped the book around to face the Winchesters. “Country of origin.”

Dean groaned. Sam stepped forward, scanning the shelves. “So, A is up here, all the way through to, what?” He squatted down to look at the lower shelves, beer bottle dangling from his fingertips. “U… Uzbekistan?” He guessed.

Clara nodded, slipping the book in her hand back into place. “I haven’t got anything from Zambia yet.”

“God, I’m surrounded by nerds.” Dean groaned again. Sam and Clara shared an amused look.

“You’ll thank me when we face a monster from some random country and, _bam_ , I’ll have its history right there at my fingertips.”

“You’re still a loser.” Dean said with a gruff smile. Clara punched him in the arm and the older man leapt back.

“We’ve really got to work on your right cross.” He teased, jumping back again when she aimed a lazy kick at his shin. “Later, nerds!” He tossed over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall. Clara’s face was flushed and she was grinning wildly, the darkness that clouded her eyes earlier long gone.

She flopped on her belly across the bed and swigged at her beer. She watched Sam for a time as he began shelving the books again, occasionally naming a country for the ones that didn’t have it listed inside. Eventually the bookcase was full and night had truly fallen outside. She hid a yawn behind her hand and smiled sleepily up at Sam as he sat on the bed next to her.

“All moved in.” She mused. “You can’t get rid of me easily now.”

He scoffed. “if you get too annoying we’ll just move you to the dungeon.”

“Rude.”

Sam laughed quietly and nudged her shoulder. “You look tired. I’ll let you get to bed.” He stood again, and Clara used the momentum from him rising to roll over onto her back. She watched Sam as he paused at the door, cracking his neck lightly as he left.

“Sam,” Clara said, suddenly not wanting him to leave. He turned to look at her, hazel eyes meeting hers with a thrill that ran down her spine. “Um… thank you. For everything.”

He smiled and nodded. Rapping his knuckles lightly on the doorframe, he stepped back. “Night, Clara.”

****

It took nine weeks, four bruised ribs (“Clara, you _have_ to learn how to defend yourself”) eight cases that the brothers insisted were ‘standard’, and four crazy ones for Clara to get into a real rhythm. most days started with an alarm at 6:30am, and Clara would meet Sam at the base of the stairs leading to the surface. They would run their usual route through the woods and then back at the bunker at around 7:15 they would head down to the gym for a training session. Clara was still far better at research than hand-to-hand, but with Sam’s patient tutelage she had learned to shoot properly and had taken down both Sam and Dean (whenever he deigned to join them) over a handful of times. They had learned, though, that she was by far most talented with a knife – her grip was instinctive, and when Sam raised his eyebrows at her when she sank her third blade into the bullseye they had set up across the room she blushed and shrugged.

“You don’t really have access to guns in Australia, unless you’re on a farm or something.” She explained as she yanked the blades free and walked back to him. “And I was a weird kid – I liked knives.”

There had been a few cases that had the brothers scratching their heads, and that had really been Clara’s time to shine. She had familiarised herself with the Men of Letters’ filing system in her downtime, and from there she was able to draw any onformation she needed within minutes.

This morning, though, Clara was shaken awake at 3:00am by Dean. Sam stood at her bookshelf, scanning the upper levels. Both were still pyjama-clad and bare-foot.

“What… What’s going on?” Clara croaked, eyes and throat still thick with slumber. She coughed and pinched some sleep from her eye, staring blearily at the brothers. “What’s wrong?”

“Jody threw us a case.” Dean explained, jaw tight. “Like nothing she’s seen before. She wants you to call her so she can give you some more details, but it’s looking like your type of monster.”

“My type?” Clara shook her head and swung her legs out of bed, goose bumps raising on her legs as her bare feet hit the ice-cold floor.

“Fucked.”

“Ah.” Clara said. She was up and across the room, rummaging in her dresser for a pair of jeans. Dressed in her usual sleepwear – a massively oversized grey t-shirt and an old pair of trunks – she only had to drag the pants on. She gathered the shirt up and knotted it at her stomach. Not bothering with anything else except a pair of socks to shield her from the cold, she snatched up her phone and dialled Jody’s number.

The two women hadn’t officially met, but they had an easy banter spawned from hours of back and forth over different cases. Today, however, Jody was straight to business.

“Clara, hey. This one’s weird, kid, even for me.” Jody’s voice crackled over the speaker as Clara made her way to the library, the Winchester’s close on her heels.

“Hit me, Jodes.” Clara set her glasses on her face and slid easily into a chair, pulling her notebook over and flipping to a blank page. She scribbled the date at the top and then spun her pen in between her fingers, chewing on her lip as she listened to the voice on the end of the line. Dean sat across from her and Sam leaned on the table next to her, palms flat and shoulders tense. His hair had gotten longer in the months since Clara had joined them and it fell over his eyes as he watched her teeth worry at her bottom lip.

“The _fuck?”_ she snapped into the phone. Turning to stare at Sam in wide-eyed shock, she pulled the phone down away from her mouth. “Sam, can you grab a book from my bookcase? Should be second or third shelf. Damn, can’t remember the name, but it’s a light blue. Hardcover, I think, with gold lettering.”

Sam nodded and squeezed her shoulder before jogging back to her room. Dean grunted about making coffee and disappeared after his brother, kitchen bound.

Dean raked his hand through his short hair as he refilled the pot. It was jobs like this that made him worry about having brought Clara on. She was a civvy, regardless of how much training she put in. But Sam’s face when they were together… how could he refuse that? Sam’s chance for actual happiness? Not that either of them would actually do jack-shit about it.

“Hey,” Sam appeared in the doorway, a thick blue book grasped in his (surely abnormally) large hand. “Got the book.” He disappeared just as quickly.

“Yeah, comin’.” Dean called after him, gathering up the three coffee mugs and the full pot. It was going to be a long morning.


End file.
